


The Practitioner's Gift

by judyparker



Category: Emperor's Edge - Lindsay Buroker
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judyparker/pseuds/judyparker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Amaranthe finds a Solstice Day gift for Sicarius, she gets more than she bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Amaranthe stood stock-still, her back pressed against the alley wall. A slight breeze whispered through her wavy locks. Self-consciously, she pressed her lips together, hoping that the lipstick she’d applied wasn’t too garish. Or the kohl. In her opinion, it made her eyes look decidedly raccoon-like, but whatever the effect, she certainly did not look like herself. Though Sicarius disapproved of disguises, she had wanted to try one, just this once. If this worked… life in Stumps would get much easier.

Meters away, the bustle of the Solstice Day crowd filled the sidewalk. It was unlikely that anyone would notice her: they were too busy preparing for the festivities of the longest night of the year. The empire was still in disarray, with no emperor and a dozen new warrior-caste candidates appearing every day claiming the most royal lineage. Even so, the citizens of Stumps could not resist a festival, particularly one in which, to honor of the lengthening of daylight hours, it was customary to exchange gifts with the light of one’s life.

Cautiously, she inched her head around the corner, scouting for enforcers or soldiers. She kept an eye out for bounty hunters, too, particularly now that her own bounty had been doubled once more, and mere information leading to the whereabouts of Sicarius was worth nearly as much. But the coast was clear. Melding into the stream of passers-by, Amaranthe covered the last half block to Curi’s Bakery, visions of apple turnovers filling her head.

She had her hand on the door when she saw a familiar figure walking toward her, someone she thought she would never see again. “Retta!” she called, waving.

Retta froze, head jerking left and right to locate the perceived threat. Her eyes lighted up when she spotted Amaranthe. “You made it out!” she exclaimed. “I wasn’t sure you would.” Her expression darkened. “I’m sorry about… Well, I hope he didn’t hurt you for what I found out. You understand there was no other way.”

Amaranthe smiled politely. Grateful as she was to Retta for releasing her from her torture chamber, she couldn’t help but remember that, were it not for Retta, Sicarius’s secret would not have been revealed to Forge. Then again, had Retta not succeeded in invading Amaranthe’s mind, Amaranthe may very well be dead. “Of course.” Amaranthe paused. There were still some things that Retta might be able to tell her. “I was going to have a pastry. Care to join me?” Amaranthe asked.

Minutes later, they were seated at a cozy corner table in the back of Curi’s Bakery. Amaranthe faced the entrance, not wishing anyone to enter without her knowledge. She noted the door to her right leading to the kitchen. Presumably, there was a back exit that way, should it become necessary. She had no intention of being captured again – though the fear of capture wasn’t great enough to prevent her from enjoying baked goods. Or from fishing for more information.

“How’d _you_ escape?” Amaranthe asked Retta.

Retta’s mouth was full of chocolate croissant. Chewing hastily, she swallowed and sipped her coffee. “Pike never came back after you left. Neither did most of the people who went to the meeting.” She set her coffee down and cocked her head, looking at Amaranthe curiously. “You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?”

“Perhaps.” Amaranthe grimaced. “Sicarius killed Pike. And… I inadvertently caused the collapse of the meeting hall.”

“Well, thank you. It was like you said: so many people were missing that it took days for anyone to notice that I was gone. I took what I could from the _Ortarh Ortak_ and left in an escape pod. I disabled the tracking devices, but they couldn’t have found me even if I hadn’t. I doubt they’ve figured out more than how to make the ship go up and down, if that.”

Amaranthe wondered if these tracking devices operated on the same principle that allowed Sicarius’s knife to be tracked. Sicarius’s knife had been next to useless since they realized it could reveal their location at any time. Upon returning to Stumps, Sicarius had stashed the knife far from the abandoned piston factory that was their current hideout. He seemed naked without his trademark weapon. Seemed being the key verb here: Amaranthe had yet to find him actually naked since the return. Focus, girl, she told herself. Time to stop fantasizing about her would-be lover with rock-hard muscles. She sighed.

“What?” asked Retta.

Amaranthe shook her head. “You know how to disable tracking devices?”

“Well,” Retta began. “It is somewhat complicated. For the escape pod, I was able to generate a counter-oscillating electromagnetic field to nullify the radar pings that their pod-tracking relies upon. If the tracking had been intrinsic to the pod, however, as is the case with the obsidian-steel alloy material, I would have needed a photonic coating to eliminate its nuclear signature.”

Amaranthe nodded. Retta had lost her at “counter-oscillating,” but a coating did not sound too complex. “So, how would someone get this coating?”

“You need a special… artifact. It’s not really an artifact, of course, since this technology is based on science, not magic, but that’s --”

“Science? You mean the mental sciences?”

“No. The physical sciences.” Retta glared at her. “Anyway, I had one, but I needed money, so I sold it.”

At this, Amaranthe perked up. If she could find this device, she could use it to protect Sicarius’s knife from nefarious trackers. It would be the perfect gift for Solstice Day. Maybe he’d even relax long enough to make good on the promise he had made her. Trying very hard not to sound desperate, Amaranthe prodded. “Where did you sell it?”

Retta’s forehead creased. “Why are you so interested?”

Exuding nonchalance, Amaranthe shrugged. “It could be useful… And I’m curious what the market is for these, uh, science devices.”

Retta seemed to accept this. She took a bite of croissant, masticating leisurely. “Polgarov’s Pawn. Heard of it?”

Indeed: Polgarov’s Pawn was near the theatre district, though the few blocks that separated it from the posh frequenters of the arts declined precipitously in neighborhood quality. Amaranthe fidgeted, itching to run out of Curi’s that moment, but she managed to sit with Retta for another fifteen minutes. Luckily, Retta wasn’t particularly fond of public places, either – Forge’s conspiracy ran deep in Stumps, and though she wasn’t known to many, simply being seen with Amaranthe was dangerous for her – so neither of them suggested they linger over a second cup of coffee.

*~*~*~* 

From the outside, Polgarov’s Pawn was completely unremarkable. With its grimy windows, it blended seamlessly with the neighboring stores, a dubious-looking barbershop and a launderer’s suspiciously devoid of clothing. Inside, the pawnshop housed floor-to-ceiling shelves crowded with curios and antiques. Despite the profusion of merchandise, the shelves appeared to be organized thematically. Oddly, there was not a speck of dust to be seen. Amaranthe marveled at the meticulousness of whoever was responsible for cleaning.

“May I help you?” the woman behind the counter asked. She was nearly a head taller than Amaranthe.

“I’m looking for something… for a friend.”

“Ah, a friend. I see.” The woman – presumably, Ms. Polgarov – raised her eyebrows knowingly. “What does this friend need?”

“I was told you could tell me where to find a coating artifact, for use with, um,” Amaranthe couldn’t remember what word Retta had used. “Alloys of a traceable sort.”

Luckily, Ms. Polgarov chalked up Amaranthe’s inarticulateness to a desire to be circumspect, and not cluelessness. “I have just the thing,” she said, reaching under the counter and pulling out a long, cloth-covered item. Removing the deep black velvet cloth, she handed it to Amaranthe. “This will leave a protective monolayer coat on your… item. It prevents all tracking.”

Amaranthe looked at the cylindrical object. It was dark gray, not the fathomless black of Sicarius’s knife. “I see. How much?”

Ms. Polgarov considered Amaranthe. “For you, I can offer a very good price. This is very valuable, worth hundreds of thousands of ranmyas to the right person.” Ms. Polgarov eyed Amaranthe, apparently deducing from appearance that she was more likely to be a streetwalker than a warrior-caste heiress. “But… perhaps we can make a deal.”

“I… I can offer five thousand ranmyas. That is all,” Amaranthe said.

“Not enough.” The woman took the device back and began to wrap it again in its velvet encasement.

“Wait!” Amaranthe looked around the store. Unfortunately, the only evidence of slovenliness was the dirty front window. Bartering cleaning for the object was unlikely to work. “What will you take for it?”

Ms. Polgarov’s lips tightened in a thin smile. “I’m afraid you simply don’t have enough, dear. Unless…”

“Yes?”

“I’ll sell it to you for a memory.”

Amaranthe furrowed her brow. “A memory? Just any memory?”

Ms. Polgarov pulled her lips back what was meant to be a reassuring smile, but the effect was undermined by her frighteningly white teeth. “Of course not. I’ll choose one.”

“I don’t understand,” said Amaranthe.

“I’ll look into your mind and if I see something I like, I’ll take it. It might be a day spent in the sun on the beach when you were a child, or a night with an ardent lover.” Ms. Polgarov’s grin grew wider.

For the first time, she was grateful that Sicarius had not fulfilled _that_ promise yet. Even so, Amaranthe was torn. Memories were all she had of her father, and she was loath to part with the little of childhood she could remember. But if it were just a day – just a little memory – she could handle that, couldn’t she? She’d never even know what she was missing, once it was gone. And for that measly price, Sicarius would have his trusted knife back. Amaranthe nodded.

“All right,” she agreed. “How does this work?”

“Give me your hand.”

Into Amaranthe’s extended palm, she placed the device. Her fingers brushed Amaranthe’s skin, and for a moment, time seemed to waver.

“That’ll be all,” said Ms. Polgarov, smiling warmly. “Good day, dear.”

Amaranthe blinked. She looked at the cylindrical object she held, momentarily puzzled. She had traded a memory for it. Quickly, she racked her mind, inventorying what she could remember. She had been afraid she would forget her father, but he was still there: stern and unyielding, but loving nonetheless. She thought of the past year: of losing her job as an enforcer and the never-ending schemes to keep the emperor safe and earn her exoneration. Shrugging, she thanked Ms. Polgarov and left the store. Night was falling, and it was time to return to her men.

*~*~*~* 

Sicarius sat on the rooftop of the opera house, thinking. Snow fell steadily about him, but he only noticed its icy kiss insofar as it provided sensory information about his surroundings: a warning that the sloped roof could become slick and that he would leave tracks wherever he went. From his perch, he could see without being seen: most people never look higher than eye-level. Through the roof, he heard the faint strains of rehearsal for the evening’s performance. His familiarity with the arts did not extend beyond a passing competency in music; still, he found the mingling of voice and instrument with the shuffle of people on the street agreeable. He wondered if Amaranthe enjoyed music.

His feelings toward Amaranthe had not changed in the weeks since they returned from the Forge disaster. If anything, they had intensified. It was complicated, though. Sespian had stayed with the group, which pleased Sicarius, but the boy had not budged in his opinion of his father. An outward relationship with Amaranthe would only worsen the situation. When he was alone like this, he let himself imagine – briefly – what it would be like to forego the prudent course of action and give Amaranthe what she wanted. He snorted: whom was he kidding? It was what he wanted, too. A replay of their morning training session popped into his mind. They had been running along the frozen lakeshore, and they stopped on the opposite side of the lake for a snow-based calisthenics routine, followed by sparring. He had been demonstrating two-on-one combat to Sespian and Maldynado by evading their blows so effectively that they only impeded each other. He knew Amaranthe was sparring with Basilard behind him, but he had not anticipated Basilard earning the powerful jab that sent Amaranthe wheeling backward. Sicarius had spun and caught her before they both ended in a heap in the snow. For a brief moment, she was in his arms, so close he could feel her heartbeat. She looked sheepish, and he had muttered a half-hearted remonstrance about accurately predicting the power of one’s adversary, knowing he ought to take his own advice. Sespian had cleared his throat then, and Sicarius released Amaranthe. He saw the yearning in her eyes, but he shook his head. Not until Sespian ceased to see him as a monster.

Though clouds obscured the sun’s path, Sicarius knew it had been a quarter of an hour since sunset. In another hour, Basilard would have supper prepared for the team. Sicarius did not place a tremendous importance on dining with the men, but Amaranthe had pointed out that if Sespian only saw him in his capacity as team trainer, Sespian would never change his opinion of him. He rose, picking his way across the roof. From its southern edge, it was a ten-foot drop to the neighboring building: an easy leap. Sicarius leapt from roof to roof, until he had descended low enough to drop into a quiet alley. There was no one nearby to see the dark figure appear, seemingly from nowhere.

Around the corner, stores lined a dingy street, a uniform film of dirt covering the windows. The filth would drive Amaranthe mad. Perhaps it was this thought of Amaranthe that drew his attention to the small portrait in a silver frame in the display of a rundown pawnshop. He paused to look more closely. It showed a teenage girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, with a middle-aged man bearing a strong familial resemblance. Her father, he surmised. The girl wore her hair pulled tightly into a bun, just like the woman she would become. Her smile had not changed in the ten years since the portrait had been taken.

Sicarius peered into the window. A movement in the darkness signaled that the proprietor was still there. He pushed the front door open and stepped in. A tall woman stood at the cash register. She startled when she saw him. That did not surprise Sicarius, as wanted posters bearing his face plastered most of the city. What did surprise him was that her face lacked fear or greed. If anything, her expression reminded him of Amaranthe when she was busy scheming. He picked up the portrait from the window and walked up to her.

“Good afternoon,” she said, flashing a gleaming-white smile.

“How much?” he asked.

“For that? Ah, but you may also be interested in…” She bustled to the front of the store and picked up an olive-green cloth-bound book: _Adventuresses of Turgonia: Their Lives, Deeds, and Legacy._ “It came in the same shipment as the picture.”

Bemused, Sicarius turned the book over, examining it. He flipped through its pages, finding not a single pencil mark or dog-eared corner. Turning to the title page, he found an inscription: _To Amaranthe, on the occasion of her 16 th birthday. all my love, your father._ He shut the book. This must have been in Amaranthe’s apartment, among the belongings that were stolen when Hollowcrest made her an outlaw.  

“I’ll take both. How much?”

The woman considered him, eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Your knife.”

His knife? He couldn’t imagine why she would want a knife. Amaranthe may have noticed the minute twitch of his eyebrow that betrayed his surprise, but Sicarius doubted the shopkeeper did. “Which one?” he asked, reaching for a throwing knife.

“Not one of those. The black one.”

“I see. And you will take nothing else?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s the knife, or no deal.” The corners of her mouth turned up in her infuriating smile.

“Of what value are these items to you?” he questioned her.

“They appear to be of some value to _you_ ,” she replied.

Sicarius said nothing.

“Besides, of what value is that knife to you?”

In a split second, Sicarius slipped around the counter, intending to incapacitate her. That she knew of his knife was suspicious; knowing its vulnerability was condemning. Amaranthe would not approve, but at least this was preferable to killing the woman outright. Before he could lay a finger on her, however, an invisible force slammed into him, and he flew into a shelf, setting off an explosion of trinkets and knick-knacks. He tried to stand, forcing her mind back with his own mental defenses. She was too strong.

“I want the knife. Do you have it?”

Sicarius nodded. It was no use to him, anyway, just as she had said.

“With you?”

“Nearby.”

“I’ll be waiting, then.” The force relented enough for him to stand, but before he could think to confront her again, it pushed him out the door. He was irritated that she had bested him, and part of him was tempted to simply walk away. Still, if he could not yet give Amaranthe himself, he could at least give her something she must have thought forever lost.

The knife was close; only a day ago, he had hidden it in the slop room of a local inn. Within twenty minutes, he was back in the shop. He handed the knife to the woman and collected the book and portrait.

“Pretty girl there,” she commented.

Sicarius glared.

*~*~*~* 

Almost joyfully, Amaranthe traipsed across the freshly fallen snow. Snow had the remarkable ability to conceal the city’s perpetual dirtiness – for a few hours, at least. She dreaded convincing her men to rise before dawn for training the next morning. Already, she could hear Akstyr whining that the snow made running too difficult. But that was tomorrow. Tonight, Basilard and Maldynado had prepared a Solstice Day feast. For the past week, Maldynado had not stopped talking about the festivities he had prepared.

“Just you wait,” he had said. “A night to remember, though after the spiced wine you may not. I’ve asked a very _special_ friend to join us – no snitches, naturally. A fellow who is sure to tickle any lady’s fancy.” Amaranthe had grimaced at this. Maldynado’s constant match-making grated her nerves.

Amaranthe turned into the alley abutting their hideout. A slim, dark man stood in the shadows. Due to the lack of street lamps in the abandoned industrial district, any distinguishing features he may have had were obscured. For a Turgonian, he was of moderate height, though he still towered over her. He was clearly waiting for someone, but she did not recognize him.

“Hello,” she acknowledged him, a touch uncertain.

“I have something for you,” he said, handing her a package, wrapped in plain brown paper.

Oh, right, she thought. This must be Tuskar’s new messenger. Thin black gloves covered the messenger’s hands, so she had missed the telltale tattoo signifying membership in Tuskar’s gang, the notorious Black Arrows. Amaranthe had worked to cultivate this relationship: much as she deplored his methods, his information was frequently useful.

“Thank you,” she said as she accepted the package. She glanced left and right, checking that no one had seen the exchange, but they were alone. The man watched her, head tilted slightly, obviously curious at what the contents of the package were. Or waiting for a tip. She smiled at him brightly. “You may pass along my regards. Good day.” She turned and walked away.

It did disturb her somewhat that the messenger had known so exactly where the team’s hideout was. Of course, as long as he remained in Tuskar’s employ, Amaranthe was fairly certain that he would not try to collect on their bounties. Generally, however, when one started to receive mail at the hideout, it was time to move on. Tomorrow, she decided.

Amaranthe slipped into the old factory. The main floor was empty but for the carcasses of old machinery. She and her team had set up their quarters in the offices in the back. It was less conspicuous – and cozier – that way. Warm lights glowed from the boiler room, where Basilard had located his makeshift kitchen. Smells of roasting meat and mulling spices wafted across the shop floor, drawing Amaranthe like a bee to honey. She stopped at her room to drop off her coat and the mysterious package. The clunk of the cylinder in her pocket against the wall where she hung her coat reminded her of the day’s other mystery. Try as she might, she could not remember why it had been important to get this object. A clever trick, she thought: the pawnbroker had only to take the memory of what the item was good for, and then it would be good for nothing at all. Or it could be a fake and indeed good for nothing. But Amaranthe had resources that vixen hadn’t foreseen: a practitioner and a history professor. Surely between the two of them, they could figure it out. She smiled smugly as she retrieved the cylinder and walked to the kitchen. 

“Boss! You’re home!” Maldynado called in greeting. He sat, his feet on the table, sipping a steaming mug of deep-red liquid. For tonight, she could let that slide, though in the morning she’d be sure to give the table an extra-deep scouring. Next to him, Akstyr and Sespian played a game of Strat Tiles on an upturned crate, generous mugs of beer rested precariously on the edge. Basilard stood at the stove, stirring whatever it was that was creating the delicious aroma.

“Smells wonderful, Basilard,” Amaranthe said, walking over to peer in the pot of simmering wine. “May I?”

Basilard nodded. _The roast will be done soon. I hope you’re hungry._

“Absolutely,” she said. She filled a mug of mulled wine for herself and joined Maldynado by the table. “Where’s Books?” she asked.

“Still writing that impenetrable document,” Maldynado sighed, gesturing to the adjoining room, Books’s study. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Perhaps because it’s for the good of the empire,” she said. “Or republic. It’s actually quite interesting, if you’ll talk to him.”

“Game,” said Sespian, pushing back from his tiles. “I win.”

Akstyr snorted. “Bah, you just got lucky. Two of three.” With an impressive gulp, he downed the rest of his ale. Catching Amaranthe watching him, he hastily added, “Sire.”

Sespian snorted softly. “That’s no longer necessary, you know.”

Amaranthe’s heart went out to Sespian. Whether or not a teenager was really fit to run the sprawling Turgonian empire was beside the point. Losing the post for which he had been groomed since boyhood would devastate any man. All considered Sespian was dealing with the loss surprisingly well. Amaranthe cleared her throat. “Akstyr, would you look at this?” She pulled out the cylinder and set it on the table. “I got it at a pawnshop this afternoon. Is it an artifact of some sort?”

Akstyr sprang to his feet, upsetting the crate covered in tiles in his excitement to inspect the device. Luckily, Sespian had been sipping his own mug of ale, so tiles were not also coated in spilled beer.

As Akstyr turned the cylinder over in his hand, his face fell. He shook his head. “No,” he said dourly. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s no trace of the Science on it.” He put it down and slouched back to his chair, where he watched Sespian pick up the scattered tiles.

“Emperor or no, shouldn’t you be helping Sespian with those?” Maldynado prodded Akstyr, who grumbled but complied.

“Too bad,” Amaranthe mused, turning the device in her hands. “Maybe Books will know.” She walked across the room and poked her head into the room where he studied. “Books? I have something for you to look at,” she called.

But Books was not alone inside the room. He was conversing quietly, but urgently, with an unfamiliar man, who stood with his back toward Amaranthe. She quickly slipped the cylinder into her pocket. At her intrusion, their low conversation halted. Both men looked at her.

In horror, Amaranthe recognized the second man immediately as the “messenger” she had met in the alley. The man hadn’t been a messenger at all; he had been one of the invited guests, and she had mistaken a hostess gift for a package of clandestine information. Amaranthe flushed at her mistake. “Oh, hello,” she stuttered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were… I mean, about the package. I could go open it now.”

“That is unnecessary,” the man said, a trifle coldly. “Open it at your convenience.”

Amaranthe winced, regretting that she had already offended one of Maldynado’s invited friends, even if she was irritated at the intention behind the invitation.

Oblivious, Books stood up. “What do you have?” he asked.

“Right, um, it’s… are you sure now is a good time?”

Books scrutinized her, perplexed.  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, because, uh…” Amaranthe glanced at the visitor. The visitor stared back at her, impassive. After a long moment, he left and walked into the kitchen.

“I see,” said Books. “Another time. After Maldynado’s party here. Now that there is someone intelligent to talk to, it won’t be a complete loss of an evening.” He glanced longingly at his manuscript one last time.

Amaranthe stepped to the desk, admiring Books’s work. “How much longer do you think it’ll take?”

Books shrugged. “These things should not be rushed. It would be too much for an entire council to do with months of time. For me, alone, with only a few weeks… It is a gargantuan task.”

Amaranthe smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Well, I know you’re up to it.” Checking that the door the kitchen was closed, she lowered her voice. “Maldynado’s friend that he invited… what is his name again? I’ve forgotten.”

“Mountcrest. Viktor Mountcrest, I believe.”

Amaranthe nodded. “Well, shall we? Basilard says that dinner is almost ready.”

Viktor had seated himself at the table next to Maldynado. His posture was stiff and uncomfortable, arms crossed defensively in front of his chest. Amaranthe felt his eyes on her as she entered the room. The intensity of his stare made her want to squirm. Pointedly ignoring him, she gathered plates and utensils from the sideboard and set the table.

“Where’s Yara tonight?” Amaranthe asked Maldynado.

“Something about family traditions.” Maldynado waved a hand dismissively. “She may come by later.”

“For a bit of snake greasing, eh?” ribbed Akstyr.

Maldynado glowered with a force that could wither, as he would describe it, a man’s love apples. “One does not speak of a lady in such fashion,” he said. His expression softened. “Though, if she were willing, I would not find it in myself to disappoint.”

Akstyr snorted.

Basilard signed that dinner was ready, and the crew brought their plates to be filled. In addition to a succulent roast, the meat practically falling off the bone, he had prepared a winter green salad and root vegetables roasted in oil and herbs. Amaranthe’s mouth watered.

Silence reigned as the hungry crew fell upon their food.

 _Must be all right_ , Basilard signed. He, at least, didn’t have to stop eating to communicate.

 _It’s amazing_ , Amaranthe signed back.

 _Better than the royal kitchens,_ Sespian chimed in. _And I would know._ Everyone but Viktor laughed.

Embarrassed again at her lack of hospitality, Amaranthe spoke up, looking at Viktor. “He was just saying it’s as good as the emperor’s cooks.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Better to steer the conversation elsewhere, Amaranthe thought. As warrior caste, Maldynado’s friend may not sympathize with the emperor’s current plight. It was just as likely that he supported the Marblecrest coup. She quickly realized that, with an outsider present, there was precious little that they could discuss.

“Have you seen the new wanted posters that Forge has put up?” Amaranthe asked. “Even Maldynado’s bounty has increased. It’s nearly five hundred ranmyas now.”

“About time,” Maldynado said. “Though we all know I’m worth _far_ more than that.”

“I believe you’re worth more than that in the free samples you can conjure from unsuspecting businesswomen,” Amaranthe said.

“Did you see Sicarius’s bounty?” Akstyr spoke through a mouthful of the roast llama. He swallowed. “Almost two million.”

Amaranthe snorted. “Like anyone will ever collect it. There hasn’t been a reliable sighting of him for a year. As far as the citizens of Stumps know, he left town long ago.”

Viktor was staring at her again. “Reliable sighting or no, it hasn’t stopped the _Gazette_ and your _friend_ Mancrest from reporting on him.”

What did Viktor care about Mancrest? Amaranthe wondered. Groaning inwardly, she realized that Maldynado must have mentioned his failed attempt to set them up on a date the previous summer. A taciturn suitor was bad enough; now he appeared jealous, as well.

“Oh, you can’t blame Deret for publishing what he knows. Journalism is a cutthroat business. If he didn’t publish it, someone else would,” Books said, rescuing Amaranthe. She smiled gratefully.

A faint banging sounded at the outer factory entrance. Maldynado jumped up. “I’ll get it!” he yelled on his way out the door.

“Probably Yara,” Amaranthe said, waggling her eyebrows. “Never seen him so excited.”

“You should have seen the parade of ensembles he modeled for us earlier,” Books said. “He has been preening for her since he woke up at noon.”

Amaranthe laughed.

The kitchen door flew open, but it was not Yara who accompanied Maldynado. It was a man, dressed nearly as finely as Maldynado himself.  He wore a deep blue coat, with tails, tailored perfectly to his lean physique. As a fashionable accessory – Amaranthe hoped – he carried a silver rapier inlaid with dark gemstones, sapphires probably.

“Amaranthe, may I have the pleasure of introducing to you my dear friend, Viktor Mountcrest.”

Amaranthe stood, glancing nervously at the stranger seated at the table.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” the real Viktor Mountcrest said, his voice low and refined. He bowed slightly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Uh, thank you… I think,” Amaranthe replied. “Pleasure to meet you, too.”

Viktor opened his mouth as if to say something more, but before he could start, Amaranthe whirled to face the imposter Viktor. He merely watched her. She looked to the other men for support, but they took no notice of the imposter. They still seemed to be digesting the fanciful appearance of the new guest.

The package, she thought. Surely that would be a clue to what was going on here. “Excuse me,” she muttered as she dashed out of the kitchen.

It sat on her dresser where she had left it. The plain brown paper was held on by twine, wrapped around the package and tied in a bow, as if it were a gift. She tugged at the end and it came undone. It was actually two items. The top item was a drab old book. She frowned, turning it to read the spine. _Adventuresses of Turgonia_. She caught her breath. She had seen this book before. She had once owned this book. Trembling, she opened it, turning to the first blank page. _To Amaranthe_ , she read. _On the occasion of her 16 th birthday_. She felt the wetness of a tear on her cheek and hastily brushed it away before it could splash on the page and mar her father’s signature. She closed the book. The second item was a small portrait, of her and her father. She had not seen it since she’d been forced to leave her apartment and all her belongings a year ago. Holding one in each hand, she stared at the items in disbelief.

A slight rustle alerted her that she was not alone. She spun around to find the strange man at the door.

“Where did you get these?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice even. “Were you there, in my apartment? Did you steal them?”

“No.”

“Where did you get them?” she repeated.

“I saw them today in a pawnshop. I recognized you,” he explained.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her heart beating faster. “Why?”

His brow wrinkled, more expression than she had seen from him all evening. “I knew you had lost them, Amaranthe,” he said. “When they cleared your apartment. I thought having them back would please you.”

“Who am I to you that you would care?” she asked. Her voice was sharper than she had intended.

The man closed his eyes briefly, as if pained. When he opened them again, his eyes were darker than ever. “I know it’s been difficult for us… with Sespian. I do regret that.” He stepped toward her, reaching out as if to touch her. She shrank back, and he dropped his hand. “But Amaranthe, you must know that I care.”

“What are you talking about?” She narrowed her eyes. “Who _are_ you?”

He only stared at her. Then, soundlessly, he turned and left the room. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was fast becoming habit for Sespian to wake hours before dawn, even if they had only retired from the party a few hours before. The assassin – his father, he corrected himself – would accept no excuses for missing training: not the foot of snow that had just fallen, not the fact that today was a holiday, and certainly not the hangovers they were all suffering from. Groaning, he swung his legs over the bed and sat up. Snores still rattled from Books’s and Akstyr’s cots. Basilard, too, sat up in bed, but Maldynado’s cot was empty. Of course: several hours after Viktor Mountcrest had appeared, Evrial Yara joined the group. Sespian couldn’t remember if she had gone home later.

Sespian dressed quickly, shaking Books and Akstyr awake before he walked out to the kitchen. Basilard was there already, boiling water for tea. Amaranthe sat at the table with Yara.

“Morning,” said Sespian. “Well, almost. Good night is more accurate.” Neither woman laughed. He continued awkwardly. “What’s the workout this morning?”

“With the new snow, I thought we could go sledding,” said Amaranthe.

“Sledding?” Sespian echoed, his voice incredulous. How had Amaranthe convinced Sicarius that sledding was a training exercise? He glanced around the room again: Sicarius was absent. This just may be his lucky day.

“Yes. Sledding. We’ll run to the hill on the other side of the lake and sprint up it. Of course, you may take whatever means you wish to descend.” Amaranthe grinned. “Are the other men up yet? It’s already a half hour past the usual time. We really must be going.”

“Right,” said Yara. “I’ll, uh… I’ll get Maldynado.” She disappeared into the adjoining study. Sespian hadn’t known there was a bed in there. Come to think of it, he was pretty sure there wasn’t.

“Sespian?” Amaranthe was watching him impatiently. “Would you please get Books and Akstyr?”

Another twenty minutes later, the seven of them were running to the sledding hill. Actually, running was a rather generous description of their slow, hopping trudge through the snowdrifts that had blown up on the lake. At some places, the ice was nearly bare, but a few yards beyond them there could be a bank nearly as tall as Amaranthe. True, there was a path that circumnavigated the lake, and at least the old layers of snow had been cleared from it before the new stuff had fallen, making for easier footing, but this direct path was much shorter.

“Not that I’m complaining,” huffed Sespian as he struggled up another mountain of snow between Akstyr and Maldynado. “But where’s Sicarius? He’s always at training.”

“Perhaps his night with Amaranthe wore him out,” said Maldynado. “After all, I’ve never seen the man exercise _those_ muscles.”

“Really?” D’you think he and Am’ranthe…” Akstyr trailed off. “No way.”

“He left the party as soon as she did, and neither of them came back. It doesn’t take a genius to surmise what transpired next.” Maldynado elbowed Books, who glared at him. “Don’t you agree, Booksie? Or do you have some romantic expertise of your own to share here?”

Books did not reply.

“They did leave the party at almost the same time,” Sespian mused. His stomach clenched at the thought. That Amaranthe still saw him as a child was bad, and that Sicarius was his father was worse. But the possibility – or rather, probability – of a relationship between the two of them… What ancestor had he offended to deserve such a fate?  

They slid down the drift and picked up speed over the relatively clear patch of ice on the other side, drawing near to Amaranthe and Yara.

“If it went so well, oaf,” said Books. “Why isn’t he here now?”

Amaranthe was close enough to hear the last bit of conversation and she turned. “Why isn’t who here?”

“Sicarius,” said Sespian.

She slowed to run alongside him. He glanced at her. Her brow was creased with bewilderment. “Sicarius?” she asked. “ _The_ Sicarius?”

“Uh, yes.” It was Sespian’s turn for confusion. He stole another glance at Amaranthe, careful not to trip. Her expression showed no sign of jest.

“You know,” Maldynado said. “Sicarius, the infamous assassin with a non-existent sense of fashion you’ve kept at your side for the past year? Is there another Sicarius?”

“Not funny, Maldynado,” snapped Amaranthe, speeding up to rejoin Yara.

Sespian watched her, waiting for her to be out of earshot. He lowered his voice. “Did that seem a bit… odd to anyone else?”

“Maybe they had a fight,” offered Books.

Sespian shook his head. “No. It was like… she didn’t even know him. How is that possible?”

“You could do it with the Science,” said Akstyr. “Removing a memory is tricky, though. If you’re not skilled enough, you might leave fragments behind. Totally erasing a person…” He let out a low whistle, or would have, if he weren’t breathing so hard. “Incredible.”

“Come to think of it, she _was_ acting strangely last night,” offered Books.  “When she found us in the study, she had something she wanted to ask me about, but she didn’t want to show it to me in front of Sicarius. I assumed it had something to do with him, but what if she didn’t know him even then?”

The men were silent for several minutes. Basilard nudged Sespian’s elbow and signed. _Well, shouldn’t we do something about it? He’s our best fighter._

“Are you kidding? Think of what this means! No more training sessions! No more glowering stares!” Akstyr’s voice held an excitement he rarely showed for anything but the Science.

“And I could finally set her up with a suitable match,” Maldynado chimed in.

“If Sicarius being gone implies no more training, what exactly is it we are doing here? Anyway, I don’t believe that Amaranthe appreciates your intrusions into her love life,” Books chided Maldynado. A few strides later, he added, “Then again, you have a point.”

“Ha!” Maldynado was triumphant. “Could you repeat that, Professor?”

Books glared at Maldynado.

Sespian tuned out their banter. He was turning over the possibilities in his mind. If Amaranthe had completely forgotten Sicarius, maybe he would have a chance with her. He only had to find a way to convince her – no, _show_ her – that nineteen, going on twenty, wasn’t so young.

*~*~*~*

Sicarius had watched the sun rise from the factory roof. He was proud to see the team leave for training exercises under Amaranthe’s leadership, even if they were nearly an hour later than usual. He was moderately surprised they were out at all, after the previous night’s carousing.

Two hours after sunrise, Sicarius picked out the sound of Books and Maldynado bickering. So they were back. Amaranthe and Yara led the group, followed by Sespian and Akstyr, then Books and Maldynado. Basilard lingered behind. Once the rest of the team had disappeared into the factory, Basilard looked directly at Sicarius, as if he had expected him to be there. He hesitated a moment, then jogged around to the back of the factory. Moments later, Sicarius heard the crunch of Basilard’s footsteps in the rooftop snow.

Basilard settled beside him. _Where did you go last night?_

Though it was unlikely anyone could hear them below, Sicarius signed back. Ignoring Basilard’s question, he asked his own. _Did you see the device that she showed Akstyr last night? She didn’t want to show it to Books in front of me._

_Yes. Akstyr didn’t know what it was._

_Did she say where she got it?_

_A pawnshop_. 

_Do you think that has something to do with her… condition?_

_She didn’t say which one?_ There were hundreds of pawnshops in Stumps. Sicarius thought it highly improbable that they had visited the same one the previous day. Then again, what was the likelihood of just any pawnshop selling an old frame bearing Amaranthe’s portrait?

_Which what?  
_

_Pawnshop._

_No._ Basilard turned to face him, his expression concerned. _She doesn’t know who you are. Akstyr thinks it’s the work of a practitioner._

_But the device is not an artifact._

Basilard shrugged. _What do you want me to do?_

Sicarius thought about it. He _wanted_ things to be as they were yesterday morning, before Amaranthe had forgotten that he existed. No, he corrected himself, she knew he existed, but she didn’t know who he was to her. Or, who he had thought he was to her. Months ago, he had considered leaving her team. Consorting with a notorious assassin was not helping her win exoneration. Even now, with the empire in shambles, she was unlikely to achieve the diplomatic victory she sought if he were at her side, lurking in the shadows. In his selfishness, he had not left: he wanted to be with her, and, arrogant as it may sound, he knew she wanted to be with him. His leaving would have caused her pain, and he did not want that.

This changed things. With no memory of him, her life would be far less complicated. She would find a way to stabilize the empire. She would help Sespian. Maybe she would even fall in love with Sespian. His chest tightened at the thought, but how could he be jealous of his own son? They could make each other happier than he could.

Basilard elbowed him. _Sicarius?_

_Nothing,_ he replied. _I want you to do nothing._

_I thought you loved her._

Sicarius looked sharply at Basilard. _All that matters is that they are safe. Amaranthe, and my son._

_And you?_

_I will be watching. When I can be of use, I will be there. But it is best that she not know._

Basilard nodded. _I understand. If you change your mind…_

_I won’t._ Without another word, Sicarius left. Coincidence or not, this pawnbroker may be a danger to Amaranthe. It would be irresponsible not to investigate.

*~*~*~*

Training without Sicarius had been far less strenuous, though it was still no walk in the park. Back in the hideout, Sespian collapsed into a chair. In a few moments, he would get up and bathe and prepare for the day, but for now it was enough to just sit.

“I’m hungry,” said Akstyr. “Where’s Basilard?”

Sespian raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t anyone else ever cook around here?”

“Well… we used to take turns. But it was so awful when Sic--” Akstyr glanced at Amaranthe, who was out of earshot. Still, he lowered his voice. “When Sicarius cooked. Organs and eyeballs and fat.” Akstyr shuddered. “So Basilard took over.”

“Huh.” Sespian stood and walked over to the cupboard.

“What’re you doing?”

“Cooking.” Sespian scanned the shelf for breakfast food. He pulled down a sack of oats and a cooking pot. “Let’s see. How much of this do you think I use for porridge?” He filled the pot with dry oats and dumped some water in it. He brought it to the stove. The coals were still warm, but they would need to be replenished to cook the porridge. He shoveled some more in and set the pot on top.

Akstyr nodded, impressed. “Not so hard, I guess.”

Proud of his culinary prowess, Sespian rejoined Akstyr. He reclined as much as the straight-backed chair would allow and set his feet on an upturned crate. “Now we wait.”

Amaranthe and Books appeared in the study door, heads bent over the cylinder that Akstyr had failed to identify the previous night.

“It’s highly unlikely to be Turgonian in origin,” said Books. “Which leaves the alien technology we encountered at Lake 73. Its physical properties differ greatly from Sicarius’s knife, however. I’m not a metallurgist, but this seems to be in many ways the opposite of Sicarius’s knife. The knife is hard; this material is much softer.” He demonstrated by scoring it with his fingernail. “Whereas the knife has a high heat capacity but low conductance, this cylinder has the reverse. Have you noticed how it siphons the heat from your touch?”

At the mention of Sicarius, Sespian’s attention snapped to Amaranthe’s expression, waiting for a reaction. Her lips pressed in a thin line, and her forehead creased, but she said nothing, only nodding. “What you’re saying is that Turgonian research libraries will be useless to us here.”

“Effectively, yes. Though I could still attempt to find a connection, I believe my expertise would be better spent here,” Books jerked his head toward the study where his unfinished magnum opus lay.

“Very well,” said Amaranthe.

The kitchen door opened and Basilard strode in. He sniffed once, and again, then he darted to the stove where a thin line of smoke rose from the pot. Hastily, he shoveled out half of the still-dry oats and poured in a much larger quantity of water than Sespian had believed necessary. He stirred the mixture, fishing out a few blackened oats that rose to the top.  

“Cooking wasn’t a significant part of my, uh, education,” Sespian mumbled. He felt the blood rush to his face.

“No kidding,” laughed Akstyr.

“I don’t recall your first attempts being much better,” Amaranthe said. “At least Sespian tried.” Akstyr started to object, and Amaranthe added, “voluntarily.”

Sespian smiled at her gratefully, though he wished he hadn’t proved himself so utterly incompetent at the seemingly simple task of mixing oats and water.

“Anyway,” continued Amaranthe. “We still need to figure out what this thing is for. For that, I need to go back to the shop where I got it.”

“I’ll go with you,” offered Sespian. To his own ears, his voice sounded childish and over-eager. He cringed.

“Thank you, Sespian, but I’m afraid you’re too easily recognizable. Our plan isn’t yet ready for the good citizens of Stumps to know you’re still alive.” Amaranthe stared out the window. Sespian thought he could almost see the gears turning in her head as she concocted a plan. “No, I have a use for you this evening. How would you like to help me infiltrate the Imperial Barracks?”

Sespian’s heart skipped a beat. An evening, alone with Amaranthe? A chance to show her that he could be useful for something? He checked himself, lest his voice betray his enthusiasm. Channeling Akstyr’s apathetic manner, he replied, “Sure,” adding a shrug for believability.

Amaranthe smiled at him warmly. Of course she saw through him. She was kind enough, however, not to mention it. “I’d like Basilard and Akstyr to come with me this afternoon,” she said.

“But I have studying to do,” Akstyr objected.

Amaranthe’s brow lowered in irritation. “Yes, and that’s why you’ll be free tonight. But this afternoon, I need someone with knowledge of the Science.”

“The shopkeeper probably isn’t even a practitioner,” he argued. “The device isn’t –”

“I know,” Amaranthe spoke through gritted teeth. “But I need you.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “What’s Maldynado going to do all day?”

Maldynado and Yara chose that moment to reenter the kitchen. “I’m going to enjoy a bit of rest and relaxation after that tiring workout,” Maldynado yawned.

“Which one?” Akstyr sniped.

Maldynado waggled his eyebrows, and Akstyr huffed in disgust.

“Actually,” said Amaranthe. “I believe we are getting low on provisions. Maldynado, would you mind doing some shopping today?”

“I’m sure Basilard could concoct _something_ from what we have on hand. I have a previous engagement,” Maldynado declared, nodding toward Yara.

_Only if you fancy a turnip and oat stew for dinner_ , Basilard signed. _And leftovers for breakfast._

Maldynado sighed. Turning to Yara, he said, “I’m sorry, m’lady, but I’ll be unavailable to keep you entertained. We couldn’t afford groceries if I were shopping with someone as lovely as you.”

Yara rolled her eyes. “Keep trying, Mal.”

“Don’t forget to get milk,” Amaranthe said cheerfully. “Basilard and Akstyr, we leave in ten minutes.” She pocketed the cylinder and left the kitchen.

Basilard removed the porridge from the stove, and the hungry crew dug in. But within five minutes, they had finished. Books disappeared into his study, and Maldynado left with Yara to walk her home. Basilard and Akstyr walked out for their errand with Amaranthe.

“No problem,” said Sespian to the empty room. “I’ll get the dishes.” He resigned himself to another long, boring day alone in the hideout.

*~*~*~*

Before leaving the factory, Sicarius climbed into the upper rafters where he had left his few belongings. His two changes of clothes, small sewing kit and weapons cleaning oil fit easily inside his rucksack. He stood to leave, but paused. From his perch, he could hear the discussion in the kitchen below.

“I’ll go with you,” he heard his son say. She had better not let him do that, Sicarius thought. It was broad daylight.

With relief, he heard Amaranthe turn him down. A moment later, however, she continued. “How would you like to help me infiltrate the Imperial Barracks?”

That was far worse. Sicarius wondered if Amaranthe would know about the invisible wards that he had told her about a few weeks ago. Not knowing the intricacies of memory erasure, he had to assume not. He considered the entrances she knew about. Obviously, she wouldn’t go in the front gate: that would be impossible. That left the sewer tunnels. He would be there, then, in case they needed him.

He picked up his rucksack, but set it back down, thinking of one other way he could help. He pulled out a change of his eminently practical black clothing. It would fit Sespian well, for they were of identical height and very similar builds. Anyway, it was far better suited for tramping through the sewers than Sespian’s own light-gray attire. He scrawled a note to Basilard, thinking it more likely that Sespian would accept it from the Mangdorian than from him. He dropped it on Basilard’s cot and slipped out of the factory.

Arriving at the pawnshop half an hour later, Sicarius pushed the door open. The once-cluttered shop was completely empty. Perplexed, he stepped outside again to verify that he was in the right location, but, of course, he was. Back inside, he walked past the now-clear window front. He ran a finger down the barren shelves, finding not even a speck of dust.

Stepping behind the counter, he pulled open drawers and cabinets, but to no avail. Was there a back room? Sicarius examined the natural cracks in the wood-paneled wall behind the counter. No door was revealed. As he walked back and forth, the timber of his footsteps changed. He stepped back, tapping his foot on the floor. There was definitely a hollow space. Dropping to his knees, he searched for the edges of a trapdoor, finding a small ring hidden beneath the overhang of the cabinet. He pulled, and a section of floor lifted to reveal a ladder descending into darkness.

A sound rattled at the front of the store. Sicarius glanced around the store for a secondary exit; not finding one, he lowered himself down the ladder and silently closed the trapdoor over him. Only a thin line of light at the edge of the trapdoor seeped into the darkness below.

“It’s empty,” said a familiar voice. Akstyr. “Are you sure this is the place?”

“Quite,” Amaranthe replied. Sicarius heard the door swing shut and then her footsteps approaching. The footsteps stopped behind the counter, directly over his head. Drawers were opened and shut. Scratches and taps sounded on the wall. “Hmm,” she said. “I don’t see…”

Sicarius knew she would soon find the trapdoor. He climbed down the ladder. About fifteen feet below, his feet found a dirt floor. Pulling out a knife, he stood still, alert to any sounds below that may indicate living beings. There were none. He walked away from the ladder, finding a stone column nearly as wide as he. He felt his way around it. Until she came down the ladder, he’d at least be out of her direct sight.

He glanced behind the column. Now that his eyes were dark-adjusted, he could make out a glow. It emanated from deep in the chamber, reflecting off of rows and rows of columns identical to the one he hid behind. The space was much larger than the store above and must extend into the neighboring lots. Curious; perhaps it predated the current buildings. Feeling the well-worn stone of the pillar, he wouldn’t be surprised if it predated the Turgonians.  

He heard the trapdoor open. He did not look, lest the flood of light impair his dark vision. “Basilard!” Amaranthe called out. “Look.”

It would be best if she not see him. Slowly, he crept toward the glow.  He noticed that the columns were geometrically arranged in a hexagonal lattice, a pattern that minimized the number of columns required to support a given load. So this chamber had not been designed haphazardly. He wondered who had left it here, and though silence was best for an exploratory mission such as this, he missed Amaranthe’s burbling. More often than not, it produced useful insights.

In the distance, he heard Amaranthe, Akstyr, and, judging by the silences, Basilard discussing who should go down. “Fine,” said Amaranthe at last. “We all do. Akstyr, can you make a light? I’ll go down first. Basilard, would you close the trapdoor behind you? There’s no lock on it.” He heard the soft thud of her boots on the earth. Quick as a cat, he slipped toward the edge of the columns, away from the backlight of the glow. Circumnavigating the chamber, he continued toward the illumination.

He reached it before all three of them landed in the chamber. Akstyr’s voice echoed in the empty chamber, and Amaranthe hushed him. “Not the time,” she whispered. Sicarius snorted, recalling the last time he and Amaranthe had explored the dark space beneath a trapdoor. That time, they had nearly been killed by sentries: hybrid Science-technology devices that could incinerate anything in their path.

What if they triggered something like that here? Sicarius turned to the glow, examining it obliquely, well aware that they would be able to make out his form if he stood directly in front of it. Sicarius squinted at the archway, searching for irregular regularities that could indicate a trap. There were none. Beyond the empty archway, there was a bluish orb hovering over a still black pool. Shelves, fifteen or twenty levels high, surrounded the pool. Sicarius stepped through the arch to look more closely. The shelves held small glass cubes, no more than a few centimeters on a side, each containing a floating amber sphere. Below each cube, a name was inscribed in a spidery hand. Sicarius peered into the spheres. Forms seemed to coalesce in the depths: people laughing and crying, fighting and making love. He stepped back. What was this place?

The echoes of footsteps reminded him that he was not alone, and he did not wish to be seen. He jogged along the shelves, rounding the end of one to reach the shadow beyond. As he turned, a familiar name caught his eye. _Amaranthe Lokdon_ , it read. Heedless of the consequences, he snatched it, stashed it in a pocket, and jumped behind the shelf.

At that moment, there was a faint clicking noise, followed by the sound of a metal chain slowly unwinding. Sprinting back around the shelves, he saw the faint outline of a barrier dropping in the archway. He pumped his legs harder. As he neared the arch, he dropped into a roll, hurtling under the descending metal door. It brushed him as he slithered past and slammed into a pair of legs.

“Oof!” grunted Amaranthe, falling backward. Deftly, Sicarius completed his roll, landed on his feet, and caught her before she hit the ground. He didn’t set her down, but kept running to the ladder.

“Run,” he commanded Akstyr and Basilard. “The practitioner is coming.”

Amaranthe struggled. She kicked her legs and arched her back, attempting to twist out of his arms. It was no use: he was far stronger than she. She sensed this quickly, too, and ceased fighting him. He did not relax his grip, however, knowing she would only take advantage and renew her efforts to escape. Holding her so close, he felt her heart thrumming wildly against his chest, and he thought of the hours he had carried her, like this, through the jungle only weeks ago.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. “Why are _you_ here?”

So she had recognized him, or, at least, deduced who he was. “There is no time,” he said. “You and your men must go.” He hardly paused when he reached the ladder, except to shift her into a one-arm hold as he scurried up the rungs.

The comparative brightness of the dingy shop was disorienting. Perhaps he still had time to get away before she asked more questions. He trusted Basilard and Akstyr would heed his warning, at least. Sicarius set Amaranthe down and ran outside. The street was deserted. He stepped into the recess of the brick storefront. A moment later, Amaranthe, Basilard, and Akstyr emerged from the shop. He watched them run, not in the direction of the factory, but on a roundabout route lest they be followed. He thought he saw Basilard glance back at him, but he was not sure. He may have just been checking for pursuers.

Sicarius scaled a wall, landing on the roof. He jogged a few blocks in the direction Amaranthe had run, hopping from roof to roof. A few minutes later, he caught sight of them. They had paused, waiting in the darkness of an empty alley while enforcers on the next street passed.

While they waited, Sicarius pulled out the amber sphere. As he stared into it, images – of him and Amaranthe – floated to the surface. He watched himself almost kill her, several times: that night on the lake path, on the cursed island, on the roof of a train during some exercise. But he also saw his unguarded moments, moments in the lulls of their quest when they had been safe and he had revealed his secrets to her. The last image he saw was of the cave, where he brought her after she’d escaped from the Ortarh Ortak. He winced afresh at the hurt and the sadness in her eyes, her disappointment that she had revealed his secrets. It was ridiculous that she had blamed herself for the torture she had suffered because of him. He put the orb back in his pocket. It was necessary to keep this from her.

Sicarius checked the alley in time to catch a glimpse of Amaranthe disappearing around the corner. He followed. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sespian had finished the breakfast dishes half an hour after everyone left. He looked around the hideout. Noticing the numerous boot marks on the tabletop, he wiped it with a rag. He found a broom in the corner, so he cleaned the floor. An improvement, he thought. And fifteen minutes killed.

The door to Books’s study was ajar. Books could be almost as brusque as Sicarius, but Sespian did want to know what he was working on.

“Books?” His voice was tentative. How things have changed, he thought. Only a few weeks ago, he had been emperor of the most powerful nation in the world. And now he was shy about bothering an unemployed history professor. “How is it coming along?”

Books looked up from his papers, glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose. He removed the spectacles, set them on the desk and gestured to Sespian to take a seat.

“I think you’ll be pleased,” he said. “The problem we are facing is that if we completely replace the warrior-caste by a meritocratic ruling class deriving their power from success in a free economy, the warrior-caste, combined with the military, is a strong enough opposition that the country could be plunged into civil war. However, we can design a new government, one in which the executive power – that was you, the emperor – shares the responsibility of governing with an elected council of representatives.”

“I don’t understand. Why would the warrior-caste support that?”

Books tilted his head, looking speculatively at Sespian. “I’m not used to people, besides Amaranthe, caring about what I have to say.” He smiled. “It is most welcome.”

Sespian nodded. “And the warrior caste?”

“Ah, you see, that’s the genius of the plan. We have a two-part house, one of which is composed of representatives of the warrior-caste, and the other, representatives of the public at large. I’m still working on the balance of power between the two houses: how they must work together to pass laws, levy taxes, and disperse funds. If the warrior-caste has too much power, Turgonia will remain an oligarchy. But if the citizens’ house dominates, even if the warrior-caste could be convinced to accept the terms, we may be ruled by a tyranny of the majority.”

“Tyranny of the majority?” Sespian asked. “That sounds like an oxymoron.”

“Quite the opposite. Suppose there is a small group of people with interests particular to themselves. Mangdorian immigrants, for example, who wish to worship their own god, or Nurians and Kendorians who practice the Science. Just because they are small in number, does that mean we should deny them these rights?”

“Of course not,” agreed Sespian. “Though, do you think it wise that we openly acknowledge the Science?”

Books sat back, hands folded in front of him thoughtfully. “A nation that depends on lies to buttress its own strengths is weaker than one that admits its deficiencies.”

Sespian considered this. For ages, the Turgonians had denied the existence of the Science, because to admit it was to acknowledge there was some theatre in which they did not hold world dominance. In engineering and the art of war, they were unquestionably world leaders, and that was enough to annihilate the peoples competing for their own resources. Their failure in the Nurian war of twenty years before was a shameful page in Turgonian history, and the prohibition against the Science had been fortified at that time to denigrate those who had defeated Turgonia and to assure Turgonians that they had nothing to fear. Or to envy. A complacent, ignorant people were far less likely to revolt.

“Where do I fit in?”

“We know there are those who are loyal to you in the military. Amaranthe thinks we can leverage this loyalty to break the alliance between the military and the warrior-caste. With the support of the military, we will have a strong negotiating position. Our offer of greater economic freedom, and self-governance, will be attractive to the businesswomen of Forge.”

Sespian nodded to himself. “And a more open economy means more opportunities for citizens and foreigners. I like it. But… how does Amaranthe think we will break the alliance? And how do we negotiate with Forge, now that their leaders are dead?”

Books grimaced. “We have to assume that they’ve reorganized since then. And not all of the leaders are dead.”

“Right. There’s Suan, who is probably leading a coalition of Nurians to undermine the Turgonian economy,” said Sespian humorlessly. “And what about… my father?”

“We’ve discussed this. We need to learn more about his parentage, and that information is in Hollowcrest’s secret office. We don’t know where that is, but Sicarius--”

“I do,” Sespian interrupted. “I didn’t want to mention it in front of him, but I know the duct network in the Barracks quite well. I can get there easily.”

Books nodded thoughtfully. “That does simplify things.” He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

“Is he coming back?” Sespian asked.

Books met Sespian’s eyes. “I can’t imagine he will, with Amaranthe… the way she is.”

“Do you think we should we talk to her about it?”

There was a long silence. Finally, Books shook his head. “I believe we can achieve our goals without him. Our diplomatic position is strengthened by not relying on an assassin, whatever his motives may be. Amaranthe was the only one who cared if he came or went, and she’s forgotten him completely. Besides, we can’t fix it, even if there were a reason to.”

“Any idea what happened?”

“Actually, I think that Akstyr may be correct. My expertise is the not the Science, but from what I’ve read, the Kyattese are quite adept at infiltrating minds. Do you know how Forge finally coerced Amaranthe to give up Sicarius’s secret?”

“No,” said Sespian. “I sensed she didn’t want to talk about it.”

“You would be correct. What she went through… I don’t think any of us will ever fully understand. Except Sicarius.”

Sespian shivered at this thought. It was hard for him to imagine Sicarius feeling any human emotion, let alone empathy. For his entire life, he had seen Sicarius as a soulless monster. Only Amaranthe had ever challenged this view. “How did they do it?” he asked.  

“They used a Kyattese therapy stone to see her memories. It is not entirely implausible that this can be extended to actually remove memories.”

“So she didn’t give in,” Sespian said slowly. “I just don’t understand… what she sees in him.”

“Neither do I. But that is Amaranthe’s gift. She sees the best in people, whether anyone else sees it or not.” Books stared at the papers in front of him, apparently lost in thought. “He does care about her, though,” he continued. “There are two people in this world that he cares about. You and her. He trusted us to keep you safe because he knew we could not help her. And he was right.”

Sespian stood. “I should let you get back to your work,” he said.

He passed through the kitchen into the main floor of the factory. Rafters spanned the ceiling. It looked like a nice place to sit. The wall studs were conveniently spaced less than a meter apart, with crossbeams every few meters. He shimmied up between them, until he was in reach of a thick metal pipe. Lunging away from the wall, he grasped the pipe with both arms, swinging his legs to generate enough momentum to launch himself on top of the pipe. From there, it was only a short leap to a rafter, where the same maneuver lifted him on top of it. There he perched, considering what Books had said.

Of Amaranthe’s team, Sespian trusted Books the most. Akstyr was unpredictable and moody, and his increasing power in the Science made Sespian uneasy. Despite Maldynado’s demonstrated loyalty over the past several weeks, Sespian could not quite fully accept that a member of the warrior-caste would act against his family. Basilard had been a dependable member of the team, but Sespian no longer had the power to help the Mangdorian. Why the Mangdorian chose to remain with them when the hope of protection for his people was dashed was a mystery to Sespian. And Sicarius… Sespian had tolerated Sicarius because of Amaranthe.

But Books was different. Sespian could trust his expertise and his objectivity. It helped that he was not a trained killer. He had not adapted to the mercenary lifestyle as well as the rest of the team, but Sespian saw this as a moral strength. Furthermore, Books had not supported Amaranthe’s decision to keep Sicarius with the team, showing the sort of fatherly wisdom that Sespian wished he had known.

Even so, Books acknowledged Sicarius’s usefulness and the effect that Amaranthe had had on him. That the monster could honestly care about a human being – about him – shook Sespian’s beliefs to the core.

*~*~*~*

Sicarius trailed Amaranthe, Akstyr and Basilard at a distance. Knowing where they were ultimately going, and what they were avoiding, permitted him to only occasionally visually confirm their location. Though it was no excuse, it was for this reason that he did not immediately notice the child who followed them as well. Dressed in a threadbare coat and knickers, the boy was obviously a street urchin paid by someone to report on Amaranthe’s movements. Sicarius assumed his target was Amaranthe: Basilard and Akstyr were wanted men only by association. A few blocks later, as they cut through an alley and the boy darted after them, Sicarius dropped down in front of the child, cutting him off.

The boy looked up at him in fear. He turned to run away, but Sicarius expected it and easily grabbed him by the arm. Clamping a hand over the boy’s mouth, he pulled him away from the alley entrance, where passersby may notice.

“Who sent you?” he asked, removing his hand.

The boy shook his head. “Not tellin’ you.”

Sicarius narrowed his eyes, staring menacingly at the boy. He would not hurt him – Amaranthe would _not_ approve – but the boy didn’t know that. Deliberately, Sicarius reached for one of his knives. “Who sent you?” he repeated.

The boy shook his head adamantly. “No, sir. She’ll hurt me,” he cried. “Please, sir, I can’t.”

Sicarius drew back slightly. _She_ could only be the shopkeeper he had met the day before. The practitioner, he corrected himself. “Then, whom are you following?”

“The wanted-lady. She showed me the picture on the posters. She said the wanted-lady would come to the shop today and that I was to follow her home,” the boy spluttered. “She promised me a ranmya if I told her where the wanted-lady went.”

“A whole ranmya,” Sicarius said dryly. “How generous.”

The boy nodded his head vigorously. “Yes, sir, a whole ranmya. So I can buy some bread for my sister tonight.”

Sicarius exhaled. “Do not go back to the woman. She’s dangerous. Find your sister and hide for a few days. If you see the woman, tell her the wanted lady went to the boneyard, where the trains are. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded.

Sicarius reached into his pocket, pulling out a ten-ranmya note. “You know how to count change?” The boy nodded again. “Don’t let the baker swindle you,” he said, handing it to the boy.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the boy grinned. Sicarius released him, and he sped away, disappearing around the corner.

Sicarius jogged in the direction Amaranthe had gone. As soon as he could, he returned to his aerial route, where the birds-eye view aided him in relocating her. He was puzzled. The practitioner had his knife, but she seemed to want Amaranthe, too. Amaranthe had a mysterious device, whose purpose she had forgotten when she forgot him. And in the cellar of the practitioner’s abandoned shop was a vast collection of strange glowing orbs full of pictures of people. Clearly, the device was connected to his knife somehow, but why Amaranthe was in possession of the device and how she had forgotten everything connected with him eluded him. One thing was clear, though: until this practitioner was neutralized, she was a threat to Amaranthe, and by extension, Sespian.  

Sicarius did not tolerate threats. He would have to find the practitioner. And for that, he needed the tracking stone that the men had recovered from the steamboat.

*~*~*~*

Taking a direct route, Sicarius reached the hideout long before Amaranthe. Silently, he slipped in through a broken window near the ceiling, stepping onto the rafter.

Sicarius crouched in the shadows, surveying the main floor of the factory. It was empty. The rafters, however, were not. Five rafters distant, Sespian sat, his back against the wall.  If he were vigilant, Sespian would have noticed a flicker of motion in his peripheral when Sicarius had entered the building. Either he was so deep in thought that he was oblivious to his surroundings – at this lapse in vigilance Sicarius frowned – or, worse, he had fallen asleep. Moving at glacial pace, Sicarius flattened himself against the wall. A post met the wall at the beam, and Sicarius used it to slither to the floor, not moving more than a few centimeters at a time. Minutes later, his feet touched the ground, and he glided to Amaranthe’s door.

It was locked, but he easily picked it and let himself in. Her room was just as it had been the day before: her clothes neatly folded on a shelf and her bed tidily made. A lamp sat on a small table by her bed. There was no sign of the gifts he had given her.

He surveyed the room for hiding places. The room was not completely shut off from the other offices: there was no dropped ceiling, so one could pass from one room to the next by scaling the four-meter walls. Quickly, he checked the most obvious places: the pockets of her clothing, her bedding, and the drawer in the table. Nothing. On hands and knees, he felt for any discontinuity in the concrete floor that may signal a hollowed space, but there was none. He turned to the wall, tapping and prodding each brick. For an abandoned factory, it was in remarkably good condition.

He returned to the bed. It was a simple metal frame, with wood slats supporting a mattress stuffed with cotton. There was no space in the bedposts to hide something the size of the egg-shaped tracking device. Besides, they were solid metal. He lifted the mattress and eyed the wooden slats. Twine wrapped around one of them several times. Reaching under the slat, he found a wooden box with a yellow canary on it. It was the box he had retrieved from her apartment a year before, just large enough to fit the device.

Sicarius hesitated. These were Amaranthe’s private memories, things she would not want him to see. But if the device were inside… He opened it.

There was the picture he had given her, and beneath it, the book. Under that, he saw a sketch of two people, presumably her parents. But there was no device. He shut the box and returned it to its hiding place.

Sicarius lowered the mattress and sat down. After a moment, he reclined on it, his head resting on the pillow where mere hours ago she had slept. It smelled faintly of her. Olfaction, being the most primitive of senses, triggers the starkest emotional memories, he reminded himself. That explained the hollow feeling in his chest. Simple psychology. It was only a trick of the brain.

The turn of the doorknob startled Sicarius. Unacceptable, he told himself, as he used the slight depressions between bricks to scale the wall. He pulled himself on top of the wall. The room on the other side, the men’s sleeping room, was currently empty, but he could not count on that for long if they had returned. Once he reached the other side, he would be able to climb the exterior wall to reach his own lair.

Below, Amaranthe walked into her room. Sicarius froze, not able to help watching her. She took the cylinder out of her pocket and set it on the table.

“Think, girl,” she muttered to herself. “The practitioner must have left some clue behind. She disappears, Sicarius appears. Why was he trying to prevent us from finding out what was in the next chamber? Perhaps they are working together. But then, why would I have this thing? What did she need me for? It _must_ have something to do with him.” She glanced around her room, frowning at some perceived disorder, Sicarius guessed. She smoothed the blankets covering her bed and sat down.

Moving imperceptibly, Sicarius inched toward the corner of the room, where he could crawl across the next wall to safety. Were he not moving so slowly, his weight would have flipped the loose brick out of its place and sent it clattering to the floor. But it did not. Carefully, he lifted the brick, setting it on the wall. Below was a small hollow space with an egg-size object. Sicarius pocketed it and silently replaced the brick. He could leave now.

But Amaranthe moved below him. Standing, she lifted her mattress as he had just done and removed the box of mementos. She took out the picture, setting the box on the table next to the cylinder. She sat on the mattress and stared at the image of her and her father. After a moment, she clasped it to her chest and brushed a tear from her cheek.

From the kitchen, he heard Akstyr’s voice. It brought him back to reality. At any moment, he told himself, she could look up and see him. He must go, and now.

*~*~*~*

Sespian hadn’t even been aware he had dozed off until the clang of the front door startled him awake. Somehow, he retained awareness of his precariously balanced position, and he did not plummet to the floor.

Amaranthe walked in, trailed by Basilard and Akstyr. Amaranthe disappeared into her room, but the other two went to the kitchen. Sespian descended from his perch and followed them.

“What’d you find?” he asked. He had asked so many questions today that he felt like a child among adults, grabbing for the scraps of information that they deigned to throw his way. Patience, he told himself. At least they were on his side. This was a positive change, after being first under Hollowcrest’s thumb, and then Forge’s.

“A whole lot of nothing,” said Akstyr. “Practitioner’s gone, store’s abandoned, and there’s a big empty cellar underneath it. Waste of a morning.” He retrieved his magic tome and retreated to a corner of the kitchen.

Basilard raised his eyebrows. _Nothing?_ He shook his head. _Sicarius was there. There is a cavern under the store, built long before the store was. There’s another room that we didn’t see because something set off an alarm. Sicarius warned us._

 _Amaranthe saw him?_ Sespian signed. Best that Amaranthe not overhear.

 _Not exactly. He carried her out of the cellar, but disappeared before she could see him. She heard his voice, though._ Uneasily, Basilard glanced at the door. _Let’s go in the sleeping room. She’s less likely to come in there._

 _Agreed._ Sespian followed him. Inside, he shut the door and faced Basilard.

 _Any idea what was in the second room?_

Basilard shook his head. _I didn’t get close enough. Something glowing._

“Huh.” Sespian sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. _What did Sicarius do?_

_Nothing. Just told us to go, the practitioner was coming. Then he forcibly lifted Amaranthe out of the cellar. She hasn’t said a word since we left._

_Books and I don’t think we should press her on her memory. He thinks we are more likely to succeed without him._

Basilard’s naturally somber expression grew even more morose. _Sicarius is of the same opinion._

“What?” Sespian clamped his hand over his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

But Basilard ignored him. He was looking at his cot, on which a dark bundle lay. He picked it up and a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Basilard retrieved it, scanned its contents, and handed it to Sespian.

 _For Sespian’s mission tonight. I hope you can convince him he will find it practical. –S._

_Clothes,_ signed Basilard. He grinned. _Probably these can’t be tracked._

 _He wants me to wear his clothes?_ Not in a thousand years, Sespian thought. He narrowed his eyes, looking at Basilard. _Why? Why is he talking to you? Why do you listen?_

Basilard sighed. _Not long ago, I plotted to kill him. He did my people a great wrong while he worked for Raumesys, but my people are pacifists and they will never seek vengeance for his crime. I am exiled forever for the violence I have done, and I sought to avenge my people._

 _Did he learn about your scheme?_

_Yes._

Sespian was confused. _But he didn’t kill you._

 _No, he saved my life._

Sespian dropped his head into his hands, shaking it. Sicarius was a monster, he reminded himself. He had never shown remorse, or regret, or forgiveness in his life. Basilard should be dead. _I don’t understand. Why?_

 _Because Amaranthe would wish it._ Basilard smiled distantly, apparently reliving the memory. He fixed his gaze on Sespian and held out Sicarius’s clothing. _Take them. They are practical. Besides, when you’re crawling in the sewers, you’ll be glad you’re not in your own clothes._

Sespian groaned, but he stood and accepted the outfit. _I’ll wear them._  As he walked to the door, he tossed it on his bed. _When I have to_.

*~*~*~*

Sicarius watched Sespian leave and dropped into the room as the door closed. Basilard showed no sign of surprise. The hunter had far keener senses than any of the city dwellers.

 _You know where they’re going tonight?_ Basilard signed.

 _Yes, I saw everything. I will be there._ He paused, thinking of what Basilard had revealed to Sespian. _You didn’t have to tell him those things._

Basilard shrugged. _I know what it is to be despised by your child. Sometimes it is beyond our own power to change it. Sometimes not._

_And to which category do you think I belong?_

_That remains to be seen._

Sicarius grunted. _I believe the practitioner is searching for Amaranthe. Make sure a guard is posted. Alert the men._

_What did you find today?_

In his pocket, Sicarius felt the bulge of the amber orb. Basilard would know as little as he did of how to use it, but if he saw it, it would be fairly clear what it contained. _A room of orbs. Foolishly, I touched one. That’s what closed the gate._

_Did you take the orb?_

Sicarius did not reply. _I must go._ He climbed the far wall, away from Amaranthe’s room, and jogged atop the thin ledge. Leaving as he came through a broken window, he heard the echoes of voices and laughter behind him. 


	4. Chapter 4

Sespian tugged on the black pants. The fabric clung to his hips, yet it did not restrict his range of motion at all. He could understand why Sicarius preferred them. He pulled the black shirt over his head, attached his weapons belt, and laced up his boots. Not exactly his choice of attire for a night on the town with Amaranthe, though when he had envisioned entertaining her in Stumps he had not included sewer exploration in the plan. He consoled himself with the suspicion that Amaranthe probably _preferred_ a high-risk mission to some boring dinner in a fancy warrior-caste eating-house.

Only Maldynado and Akstyr were in the kitchen when Sespian walked in. Akstyr’s nose was firmly lodged in his book of magic. Maldynado appeared to be catching a quick nap, his head resting on the back of the chair and his eyes closed. “Where’s Amaranthe?” Sespian asked.

Akstyr looked up and jumped. “Hairy donkey balls!” He shook his head. “Sorry. You just… you look so much like him.”

Maldynado cast a lazy glance in Sespian’s direction. Even with Akstyr’s warning, he seemed surprised by Sespian’s appearance. “Don’t know how any of us missed that resemblance,” he said. “Aside from your kempt locks, of course. Never could get that man to see my barber.”

“What man?” Amaranthe asked, entering the room. She looked at Sespian, her gaze traveling from his boots to his neatly combed hair. He resisted the urge to shift his weight or fidget under her inspection. She had never before examined him so closely. Now, she appeared confused, her forehead wrinkled in concentration as if trying to dredge up some long-forgotten memory.

“Never mind,” Sespian said hurriedly. “Are you ready?”

His heart skipped a beat at Amaranthe’s smile. “Ready to infiltrate the Imperial Barracks through the sewers connected to the secret underground illegal research laboratory, risking, in no particular order, death, capture, and a permanent stench?”

“It sounds so fun when you put it like that.”

She chuckled. “Let’s go. Maldynado, you take watch until Yara arrives. Basilard and Akstyr can help later, but leave Books alone. We need him to finish his work.”

“All right, boss,” agreed Maldynado. “Have a lovely evening!” He caught Sespian’s eye and winked.

Amaranthe didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, I will,” she said, clearly excited by the malodorous agenda for the evening.

They circled the lake in silence, approaching the Imperial Barracks from a bramble-covered hillside behind it.

“The entrance should be near here,” Amaranthe said. “I was delirious last time I used it, but it couldn’t have been far, or I’d have never made it.”

“When did you have occasion to use it?”

“A year ago, when I failed on the mission Hollowcrest assigned me, he sent me to the dungeons. Taloncrest infected me with hysintunga, but I escaped,” she explained.

“Oh.” Sespian remembered that night. Hollowcrest had told him she’d broken her neck in the fall. He’d shortly realized he could no longer trust the man. “I’m sorry. I’m ashamed that these things were going on without my knowledge.”

Amaranthe patted his arm. “You were being drugged. The only reason I fought so hard to escape was to save you.”

Sespian was grateful to winter’s early darkness for hiding his scarlet-hued visage. “How did you survive hysintunga? I thought it was always fatal.”

“Oh, I…” Amaranthe frowned. “I don’t remember. I guess a shaman found me.”

Sicarius had saved her, then. Sespian knew he was not trained in the Science, but he had known where to find a shaman. He suppressed a sigh.

“We’re here,” Amaranthe said, gesturing to a sign that read SEWAGE ACCESS POINT. The grating would be hidden from view by foliage in the summer, but in winter the frozen cascade of wastewater was easily identified. The bottom of the grate was set in ice. Amaranthe removed a small chisel from her pocket and began to chip away. “If Akstyr were here,” she said between blows, “he could probably just stare at it and the ice would melt. I should have thought of that.”

Sespian was glad she hadn’t. “Will you let me help?” he asked.

Amaranthe shook her head. “Just keep an eye out. Make sure no one has followed us.”

Sespian stared into the night. The waxing gibbous moon had risen above line of trees above them. With the snow-covered landscape, the light was more than sufficient to cast their surroundings into stark relief. Nothing moved.

“Got it,” Amaranthe said, with a final tug to pull the grating out. “I’ll go in first.”

After she disappeared into the tunnel, Sespian cast one last glance at the hillside below them. He squinted at a shadow that did not appear completely tree-like. It did not move, but... “Amaranthe,” he called softly into the tunnel.

“Yes?”

He checked the shadow again. It was gone. A woodland creature? His over-active imagination? “Never mind,” he said. “Right behind you.”

“Shh,” she cautioned.

Right.

Luckily, the sewage tunnel was not roaring with frigid wastewater. Unluckily, a layer of ice had formed on the bottom of the tunnel and the thin stream of liquid passing over it made it horribly slippery. More than once, Sespian caught himself from falling with a hand to the slimy wall. He vowed to dispose of the gloves he wore once the night was through.

Eventually, they reached a stone door. Amaranthe found a lever release near the floor and pulled it. A gear mechanism in the wall groaned as it lifted the heavy door. Sespian hoped no one was near enough to hear it.

The other side of the door was an ancient stone tunnel. There were no torches lit where they were, but Sespian made out a faint glow ahead, where the tunnel turned. Amaranthe crept toward it, stopping occasionally to listen for any signs of guards.

At the turn, she pulled a mirror out of her pocket to peer around the corner. “It’s clear,” she whispered, stepping into the dimly lit passageway. Rooms branched off the hall here as they had before, but here it was light enough to see inside. Sespian wished he hadn’t. The rooms held tables, with metal loops meant to tighten around arms, legs, and neck. Manacles dangled on long chains from the ceiling. Rusty metal surgical tools hung from racks on the wall. Not surgical tools, he knew: implements of torture.

The ancient stone gave way to modern cement, gleaming with a fresh coat of whitewash. So this place was still in use, Sespian thought. And he had never known about it.

Amaranthe stopped ahead of him, a hand held up in warning. Sespian still heard nothing. Lowering her hand, she signed. _There’s an entrance to the vent system up ahead. If we get in there, do you know how to get out of the dungeon?_

 _I think so_ , he replied. She nodded. Their hallway reached a T-intersection; again, Amaranthe used her mirror to check both directions. Satisfied, she crept around the corner. There was a grate. Producing a screwdriver, she turned the first screw to the left. A horrific screech filled the air and she froze. But there were no voices raised in alarm, or footsteps rushing toward them. She pulled a small vial of oil from her pocket and applied a few drops to the offending screw. This time it came out without protest. After the fourth screw, she carefully lifted the grate and motioned for Sespian to crawl in first.

The duct was thick with dust. Sespian wished he’d remembered a scarf, to cover his nose and prevent sneezing. But there was nothing to be done about it now. He crawled ahead. Behind him, he heard Amaranthe enter the duct.

At the end of a long straight stretch, the duct turned to the right. Another thirty meters later, it met a vertical shaft. This was the way above ground; a few stories up and they would have access to the main floors of the Imperial Barracks. Hollowcrest’s secret office was on the sixth floor, but it was inaccessible from the main vent system. To access it, they would exit the main system on the seventh floor and then drop in from above via a trapdoor. The paranoia of past emperors was to thank for this creative floorplan.

First, though, they had to scale this vertical shaft. Its surface was smooth metal offering no possibility of a handhold, but it was only a meter wide. Sicarius would have had no trouble with it, but Sespian’s palms were already damp with sweat at the prospect of shimmying up a chimney. He closed his eyes, pushing the thought away. He could do this.

Amaranthe tapped his foot. “Problem?” she whispered.

“No,” he replied. “We have a bit of a climb, though.”

“Understood.”

“Wait until I reach the first floor before you start in case I fall,” he said.

She snorted. “Have some confidence.” A second later, she added, “But I will wait.”

“Good. We have ten floors to go – three subterranean, then seven to Hollowcrest’s office. The horizontal shafts will be the only respite.” Stop stalling, he told himself. Time to go.

He pulled himself into the shaft, looking up to the next story. Placing a hand on the opposite side, he stood up, feet still on the flat surface of the lower vent. From his full height, the next vent was two meters up. Taking a deep breath, he pushed with his arms against the walls of the vent, supporting his weight while he placed his feet. This was harder than he had thought. One limb at a time, he shimmied upward, inching toward the next horizontal shaft. His legs quivered. He wished his palms would stop sweating so he could take off the gloves. If his hands were dry, his arms would not have to work half as much. As it was, he would just slip back down the shaft.

At last, he got one hand to the vent at the next level. Facing the vent, he placed both hands inside and walked his legs up the chimney. He slipped inside, only belatedly realizing he could not turn around in the tight space. He would have to find the next intersection and come back. 

He heard Amaranthe enter the chimney. Assuming she would be some time, he crawled down the vent. He didn’t have to go far to turn around, but as he returned, he realized Amaranthe would have the same problem. How awkward, he thought.

He reached the chimney and glanced down to see Amaranthe’s progress. She was not there.

“Amaranthe,” he whispered, the sound echoing up and down the shaft. He cringed.

“Up here,” she said. He looked up. She waved down from the next shaft. Of course: even if she did not remember it, she had been training with Sicarius for a year. She would be able to climb this shaft before breakfast without breaking a sweat. “Can you make two stories? I think it’s easier if we leap-frog.”

Easy, of course. At least his legs had stopped shaking, though this was probably temporary. “Sure,” he agreed. “I’m starting now.”

It wasn’t as difficult. His nerves had dissipated since he’d made one floor safely, and he realized halfway that his hands had stopped perspiring. He could take his gloves off after the next break. He nodded at Amaranthe as he passed her in the vent, and she gave him a heart-warming smile back.

At the next level, the last of the subterranean levels, Sespian was surprised to hear voices echoing in the shaft. He crawled out to turn around in the intersection, but when he reached it, he found the voices were crisp and clear. They must be close. He paused, listening.

“The last of the soldiers should be done this week,” a young man said. “Our… assistant has been working more quickly than we hoped.”

“Excellent,” said an older man. “And what about the alarm earlier today? Was any of the stock compromised?”

The younger man paused. “Unknown, Sire.” Sespian flinched at the honorific. Whom was he addressing? Had Ravido already assumed power?

“Unknown?”

“There is missing inventory, but it was not from the army. It was from the enforcer and the assassin, Sire.”

“I see.” The man’s tone was frosty. “Spare no resources to locate it. They are too dangerous working together.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else, Sire?”

“Not tonight. You’re dismissed.” A door slammed shut. Sespian released the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Carefully, he scooted backward, then turned and crawled back to the chimney. Amaranthe would be long finished with her segment. He hoped his delay hadn’t made her anxious.

Back at the chimney, he slipped off his gloves and stashed them in a pocket. Useful outfit, he thought. Amaranthe looked down from above, waving when Sespian poked his head out. When he reached her level, she raised an eyebrow. “Hear something?”

Nothing he could tell her. “No, just voices. Six more to go.” He continued climbing.

Amaranthe was waiting for him at the first T in the seventh-floor shaft. He crawled in behind her and tapped her right foot. “Go right,” he whispered.

They had several long stretches before they would reach the trapdoor room. At each intersection, he tapped her left or right foot to indicate their direction, lest anyone hear their whispered communications. But the seventh floor was silent.

“This is it,” he whispered, grabbing her ankle. She waved back at him and peered through the grating. Apparently assured that the room was empty, she began working on unfastening the screws from the wrong side. How exactly she managed this, Sespian had no idea. He inhaled, preparing to sigh, but finding instead a rush of dust into his nose. The urge to sneeze was overpowering. He pulled more air in, trying desperately to suppress it. He plugged his nose and clamped his mouth shut. It was no use.

“Ah-choo!”

Amaranthe glanced back at him. “Sorry,” he mouthed. She nodded, but did not continue removing the grate. For several long minutes, they waited. No one came.

Thank my ancestors for this luck, he thought. Actually, it was quite odd that they heard so few people in the barracks. He had thought it was better patrolled.

Amaranthe resumed her task. Minutes later, she removed the grating and crawled into the room. Sespian followed.

Kneeling, he felt for the latch where he knew the trapdoor to be. A panel of flooring detached, and he opened it a crack. All was dark below. He looked at Amaranthe, asking if he should proceed. She nodded.

Hollowcrest’s old office was austerely decorated. There was a desk, stacked with papers, and several tall filing cabinets lining the wall. Amaranthe walked over to the desk, running her finger through the half-inch layer of dust. She inspected her finger disapprovingly and looked around, as if searching for a dust rag.

“Not now,” he whispered. “The files.”

She grinned sheepishly. “Right, Sire.”

“You keep watch first. I’ll snoop,” he said. There was no other entrance to the secret office, beside the trapdoor, so Amaranthe pulled herself back up into the room above. She closed the trapdoor.

Sespian opened the top drawer on the first file cabinet. The first page he scanned bore the heading, _from the records of Lord General Exaltuscrest._ He replaced it. That was several hundred years ago. If the file cabinets were chronologically arranged, perhaps he should start at the end. He moved to the bottom drawer of the cabinet on the far end of the wall. It held only a few files, but they filled the entire drawer: _Worgavic, Ravencrest, Omich, Bertvikar, Myll_. The founders of Forge: Hollowcrest had known who they were. Had it been a mistake not to work with him? Sespian shook his head, closing the drawer. This was valuable information, but they could not transport it out now. He had to find Sicarius’s file first.

He moved to the drawer above. Here the organization was slightly different. Rather than files devoted to individuals, they seemed to be devoted to missions. _Mangdoria_ , read one. Sespian shivered, replacing it. He remembered that. He flipped back further. _Wolfhump_ , with a date only a year or so after he was born. Still, that was eighteen years too late. He moved up two drawers, and there he found it.

 _Project Sicarius_ , the file read. He pulled it out. Judging by its size, it was clearly not a catalog of his missions: those had filled most of the next two drawers. This was much shorter. He flipped it open. The first twenty pages contained a list of female names, with additional columns listing their parentage, occupation, and noteworthy achievements. Five pages of male names followed these. After that, crosses appeared – one female and one male. Sespian checked the first couple of crosses, finding that they had been drawn from the lists. Beneath each pairing, notes were made. He read the first two.

 

_Calyka Parkcrest x. Dario Raincrest_

_male b. 672_

_2-year scores: intelligence (139), dexterity (112), resilience (120)_

_5-year scores: intelligence (132), dexterity (119), resilience (110), control (101)_

_8-year scores: intelligence (140), agility (125), strength (120), resilience (98), control (90)_

_subject self-aborted at age 9 due to insufficient mental resilience._

 

_Kelinda Moltencrest x. Dario Raincrest_

_male b. 672_

_2-year scores: intelligence (89), dexterity (76), resilience (52)_

_subject eliminated due to insufficient aptitude._

On the first page, all of the subjects – no, he corrected himself, _children –_ had been _eliminated_ or _self-aborted_. His stomach turned at the euphemisms. How many children had Hollowcrest murdered? There were four more on this page. Sespian flipped to the next page; five more children were listed. And on the next, there were another seven. Page after page – there must have been hundreds – listed the fates of the children produced by Hollowcrest’s breeding program. Sespian saw that many of the males had fathered multiple children, but he never found a single female name repeated. Had Hollowcrest had the mercy to only require one child from each woman?

Or had he killed them when they had served their purpose, to prevent them from realizing what was being done to their child?

The trapdoor inched open. Amaranthe stuck her head in. “Find anything?” she whispered.

Sespian nodded.

“We should go,” she said. “We’ve been too long already.”

He placed the children’s files in his rucksack and carefully closed the drawer from which it had come. Whatever they needed, it would be in these papers. Amaranthe extended an arm, pulling him into the room with her.

“I had no idea,” Sespian whispered. “The extent of their program. Hundreds of children, Amaranthe. For years. The ones that weren’t good enough, they killed.” He closed his eyes. “Most of the ones that _were_ good enough killed themselves.”

Amaranthe was silent. She took Sespian’s hand and squeezed it. He looked into her eyes to find they were swimming with tears. Impulsively, he drew her into a hug. She wrapped her arms around him, and they stood there for a long moment.

“And Sicarius?” she asked, her face against his shoulder.

“I don’t know. The whole thing was known as Project Sicarius. We will have to read through all of these and find out which ones… succeeded.” He shuddered.

Heavy boots clomped down the hallway outside. Amaranthe stepped away from him, pushing him toward the open grate. “Get out of here. I’m right behind you.”

He dove into the duct and scrambled back the way they had come. He didn’t stop until he reached the first intersection. When he looked behind, he saw nothing but the empty duct.

*~*~*~*

Sicarius watched Sespian and Amaranthe disappear through the trapdoor before he emerged from the ventilation duct into the antechamber of Hollowcrest’s secret office. It was a small room, with no windows and only one way out, besides the trapdoor. Sicarius knew that this door lead to the dead end of a long hallway, accessed only from a hidden door in the bookcase of Hollowcrest’s old official office. It was unlikely that any patrols would be back here, but not impossible.

“You keep watch first. I’ll snoop,” he heard Sespian say. A split-second later, Amaranthe’s hands gripped the floor at the edge of the trapdoor. Sicarius should have slipped out into the hallway before now, but it was too late. He flattened himself against the wall, edging toward the corner. Unless she did something as foolish as light a lantern—even if she had forgotten him, she should _not_ have forgotten her training—he would be invisible to her.

He watched her pull her entire body into the room, far more gracefully than she could have done six months ago. Then, she stood silently, listening for a patrol. Together, they waited.

After fifteen minutes, she seemed to grow nervous. She lifted the trapdoor to speak to Sespian and, moments later, pulled him into the room.

“I had no idea,” Sespian said, his voice pained.

Sicarius saw pity reflected in Amaranthe’s face. He was not surprised when, a minute later, Sespian held her in his arms. Not surprised, no. A good start, he told himself. This would bring them together, surely. Yet the sick crushing feeling in his chest would not relent. Sicarius ground his teeth together, pulling his attention back to his surroundings. And back to the faint echoes of footsteps in the hallway outside. They had to hear them, he thought. He couldn’t do anything until Sespian and Amaranthe left, and they still showed no cognizance of the approaching guard. The thumps of boots were just outside the door when Amaranthe finally pushed Sespian into the duct. But she did not follow. What was she thinking? She melted into a shadow opposite him.

The door flew open. A soldier, lantern in hand, strode inside. Before the soldier saw half the room, Sicarius had placed his knife at the man’s throat and pinned him against the wall. Out of habit, he glanced to Amaranthe.

She returned a look of shock. “You…”

“Go. I will detain him while you escape,” he told her.

Amaranthe shook her head, confused. “How did you get in here?”

“It does not matter. Go. Now.” He glared at her, but she still did not move. “Do you _want_ me to kill him?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. At this, the guard renewed his escape attempts.

“No.” She slowly moved toward the vent opening. Before entering it, she turned once more to Sicarius. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then she disappeared into the air duct.

*~*~*~*

Sespian was about to crawl back to help Amaranthe, when she appeared at the intake vent. She waved at him to keep going. Even with his head start, she quickly caught up.

“Sicarius was there,” she whispered. “He’s detaining the guard. We have to get out before the alarm goes up.”

“Understood.”

The threat of discovery made the return trip seem much longer, even though they were moving faster. Sespian tried to keep from making noise, but not at the cost of speed: he knew it was a matter of time before the missing guard was noticed. Patrols operated in pairs, and the guard’s partner would be expecting him to return.

When they finally reached the vertical shaft, he did not try to shimmy down, but only to control his fall. At each floor, he caught the horizontal shaft just long enough to slow his descent from a free-fall. Amaranthe was less than a floor above him: there was no time to leapfrog now. If she fell… he refused to entertain the thought. She wouldn’t fall.

A minute later, he slowed, caught the shaft at the third subterranean level, and pulled himself in. Just one more stretch, then the unprotected dash through the dungeon to the sewer entry point.  A cakewalk. A cakewalk, if the alarm had not spread here yet.

Sespian paused as he passed each intake vent, but no footsteps echoed outside. Gaining confidence, he hurried to their entry point.

“Sespian, the mirror,” Amaranthe whispered.

But it was too late: he had already pushed out the grate and spilled into the hallway.

Which was not deserted. Two soldiers loomed over him, staring at him down the barrels of their repeating firearms. Sespian scrambled to his feet, back against the wall.

“Don’t move,” the taller of the two soldiers growled. “Or we shoot.”

Straightening his back, Sespian stood taller. “I command you to step down, soldiers.”

This earned a guffaw from the second soldier, who spat on the floor at Sespian’s feet. “That’s rich, ain’t it, Makrev.” He grinned at his partner. “And who are _you_ to stop us?”

“I am Sespian Savarsin,” Sespian said.

The words had no effect on the soldiers. “Sespian? Ne’er heard of ‘im. You look like some low-down sewer rat scrounging around imperial property. Whaddaya think, Boleslav? Should we bring him to the Emperor?”

Before Boleslav could answer, a crossbow dart lodged in his chest. Sespian took advantage of the distraction to wrestle Makrev’s rifle away. He clobbered Makrev with the butt of the rifle, and the tall man slumped to the ground. Amaranthe flew from the ventilation opening and forced Boleslav to the ground. She seemed to conjure a rope from thin air, using it to bind his arms behind his back.

“There’s no time,” Sespian hissed. “There will be more.”

“What will you have me do instead, Sire?” she asked. “Kill them?”

“He’s already dead,” he said. “He won’t survive the crossbow.” Sespian would not leave his dirty work to others. Shaking, he pulled out his knife and knelt by the soldier’s head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he slit the man’s throat.

He and Amaranthe sprinted for the sewer. They encountered no one else.

*~*~*~*

Sicarius saw the soldiers’ bodies, one dead and one unconscious, as he left the dungeons. He had heard the conversation between Sespian and the soldiers and inferred that Amaranthe and Sespian had been forced to kill the man. It frustrated him that he could not bear that burden for them.

Out on the snow-covered hillside, he easily followed their tracks. He did not wish to spy on them, but he needed to be sure that they arrived safely home.

The tracks led not directly to the lake, but to a copse of trees just above the path. In a small clearing, they were hidden from anyone on the lake trail or watching from the barracks. The camouflage worked both ways, though: he could approach them quite closely without being seen.

Sespian and Amaranthe sat next to each other, not quite touching.

“I’m sorry about the soldier,” Amaranthe said.

Sespian shook his head. “It was my fault. I should have been more cautious leaving the duct.”

“So they could have attacked us in a confined space? No, it was better this way. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past year, no matter your intentions, sometimes the loss of life… cannot be avoided.” She was silent for a minute. Sicarius wondered how she remembered that. Who had done the killings in her patchwork recollection of the last year?

Sespian was watching her, an odd look on his face. He raised his arm slowly, as if hesitating, then wrapped it around Amaranthe’s shoulders. He met her eyes, questioning. She nodded infinitesimally. “I know,” he said. “But I still hate it.”

Amaranthe leaned her head on Sespian’s shoulder. Sicarius saw that he took this as permission to pull her closer to him. Sicarius knew he should leave, or Amaranthe would be furious. That wouldn’t have changed.

Sespian kept talking. “What I found in there… there must be another way to rule, other than through secret assassinations and human breeding programs, through fear-mongering and violence.”

Amaranthe turned her face up to him. “And that is how I know what we are trying to do is worth it. You will be a better leader, a leader different from that. We just have to fix this mess.”

Their faces were very close together now. Sicarius could not see Amaranthe’s expression, but the tenderness on Sespian’s face told him all he needed to know. Sicarius backed away and left. 


	5. Chapter 5

“If anyone can fix it,” Sespian said quietly. “You can.” He lifted his hand to touch Amaranthe’s cheek, only to drop it as he remembered the slime it was covered in after the night’s adventure.

Amaranthe snorted softly. Reaching for his glove, she pulled off the offensive article and clasped his hand in hers. Her strong, calloused fingers were nonetheless warm and gentle. Sespian watched her hands holding his. “Thank you, Sespian,” she said.

His gaze traveled to her face, meeting her brown eyes. A tendril had escaped from her bun and he suddenly wanted very badly to brush it off her cheek. Hesitantly, he freed his hand and tucked the lock behind her ear.

“You’re welcome,” he replied. Amaranthe’s smile in return warmed him more than the midsummer sun. He lowered his hand, not quite into her lap, but near enough that she could take it if she wanted to. But instead, she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“There’s something… different about you tonight,” she mused. “Your training is starting to pay off, I think. You did well in there.” Between nearly panicking on the vertical climb, carelessly stumbling into guards, and, oh right, sneezing? He shuddered to think how he would have done three weeks ago. “You seemed… I don’t know.” She gestured vaguely at him. “Older. Or something.”

Dear ancestors, it wasn’t the clothes, was it?

If it was, did it matter? It was just like a normal father giving his normal son advice on how to dress for a date with a girl. Sespian snorted at the thought of Sicarius as a normal father dispensing fashion advice.

Amaranthe lifted her head and looked at him. “Sorry I’m not very articulate,” she said, glaring in mock annoyance. “What’s so funny?”

“Your assessment of my performance tonight.” He stopped, realizing how this sounded. “Er, you know what I mean… Uh…” She closed her eyes, silently laughing. He had thought he would be smoother when he wasn’t under the influence of Hollowcrest’s drugs. Now, he wasn’t so sure. “Anyway,” he said. “You’re very generous.”

She looked up at him, her cheeks flushed slightly. “You really did fine,” she assured him. She took his hand back in hers, studying it. “Have you been drawing lately?”

“A little,” he lied, thinking of the sketches of her he’d made. Most of them ended up in the fire. He could never quite capture the light in her eyes.

“I’m glad,” she said, tracing his fingers absent-mindedly. He shivered at her touch, amazed that such a simple thing could feel so intoxicating.

“Amaranthe?” he asked, leaning toward her slightly.

“Yes?” She met his gaze, her fingers stopping their tantalizing circles.

“May I…” Kiss you? No, don’t be ridiculous. Men don’t ask for kisses. He leaned closer to her, their lips now a hair’s breadth apart. She smelled nice, he noticed. Like cherry blossoms and almond bark.

“May you what, Sespian?” she asked, teasing in her voice as she pulled back slightly.

His gaze drifted to her lips, full and red from the cold. Turning toward her, he raised his hand to her cheek and caressed the soft line of her jaw. He met her eyes, searching for permission, but her eyes held only questions. Was she as unsure as he?

He’d never have an opportunity like this again. He tilted his head and gently twined his fingers in her hair, leaning ever closer toward her. Her soft lips grazed his, and he forgot to breathe. Instinctively, he pulled her toward him to deepen the kiss. He thought he heard her sigh softly, and she seemed to press her lips more firmly against his.  

A branch snapped in the distance. Inwardly cursing his ancestors, Sespian jumped to his feet, narrowly avoiding knocking her forehead with his own. If only he had moved faster, if only he had not said such ridiculous things, if only… He scanned the hillside, but nothing moved. At least, during his distraction, no one had actually stolen upon them.

“I think we’d better go,” Amaranthe said uneasily, looking around, anywhere but at him. She, too, had stood, but she had taken several steps away from him. How awkward.

“May I take you out for dinner tomorrow night?” Sespian stammered, grasping at straws for another chance.

Amaranthe froze, finally turning to look at him. “I don’t think that’s the best idea, Sespian,” she said, frowning.

“Oh. Ok.” He tried to force the disappointment out of his voice. He must be a lousy kisser.

“For one thing, you’d be too easily recognized,” she said, smiling gently.

“You mean like how the soldiers recognized me?” he asked dryly.

“That was odd,” she agreed. “I wonder if it’s the same thing that’s caused me to forget Sicarius.”

Sespian’s expression must have betrayed his surprise that she was aware of her missing memory, because Amaranthe laughed softly. “I’m not an idiot, Sespian. I’ve heard the team talking.”

“Oh.” Disappointment replaced surprise as he wondered who she had been with that evening. Probably, she let him kiss her because she was subconsciously thinking of Sicarius.

“What I don’t understand is why I associated with a vicious killer for the past year.”

You and me both, he thought. When he didn’t reply, she kept talking.

“And why did _he_ work with _me_? What did I have that he wanted?”

“You knew his secret,” Sespian offered. “That he is my father.”

Amaranthe nodded. “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer? Something like that? Why didn’t he just kill me?”

Sespian considered how easy it would be to let her think this. All he had to do was remain silent. “I know almost as little about this as you do, Amaranthe,” he said. “I’ve only been with your team for a few weeks. I don’t think he saw you as an enemy, though.” A lie of omission is still a lie, he knew, but he convinced himself it didn’t matter. Sicarius wanted it this way, too.

Amaranthe shook her head. “It’s been a long night, and we still have research to do.” She motioned to Sespian’s rucksack. “Shall we?”

They picked their way down the bramble-filled hillside. Once they reached the path at the bottom, they broke into a slow run. It was several miles back to the hideout.

“You know,” said Sespian. “Tomorrow night could be a reconnaissance mission to determine if the amnesia is city-wide.”

“Uh-huh,” said Amaranthe. “You are stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Unlike anyone else I know.” He glanced at her quickly, catching the amusement that crossed her face. Thrilled by her reaction, he ran faster.

“It’s too risky. But…” Amaranthe matched him, stride for stride. He looked at her and she smiled wickedly, increasing the pace again. “I suppose you must be itching to get out of the factory once in a while. Why don’t we take a picnic dinner while we scout new hideouts tomorrow night?”

“I’d like that very much.” He grinned, his heart threatening to leap from his chest, and not just from the running.

*~*~*~*

En route to his current sleeping perch at the opera house—though he had spent a several consecutive nights there, the music during the Solstice festivities had been oddly comforting and he resisted leaving until given cause—Sicarius stopped at a butcher’s for the offal that he used for ration bars. The hour was late, but he had a long-standing arrangement with this butcher. Even so, he circled the shop once before entering, checking that it was not being watched.

Inside, a gray-haired man in a white apron stained with blood sat behind the counter, reading. The store was otherwise deserted.

“Same as usual, eh?” the butcher asked, remarkably unperturbed by the assassin’s appearance. It may be time to change butchers, Sicarius thought. “I’ve got it for you here.” He handed a package wrapped in brown paper to Sicarius.

Sicarius handed him a few ranmyas.

“Oh, and I have a message. From a friend of yours.”

Yes, it was definitely time to change butchers, if this one were known to associate with him. Sicarius waited for him to finish.

“Not the talkative sort, right. Seems a professor and a lord-type are looking for you. You can find them at the Rusty Nail.”

Sicarius nodded and walked out the door.

“And a happy solstice to you, too,” he heard the butcher call after him.

Books and Maldynado? Sicarius preferred to deal with Basilard, and it seemed odd for Maldynado to choose a tavern of the Rusty Nail’s caliber. That they would wish to meet with him, and at a place as risky as a tavern, annoyed Sicarius. But if it would help Sespian and Amaranthe’s mission, he had no choice.

Sicarius arrived at the Rusty Nail an hour short of midnight. The merry-makers were in full swing by then, sloshing their over-flowing mugs of ale and gulping their tumblers of apple-whiskey. He scanned the patrons, but Books and Maldynado were not among them. Perhaps they had moved on to the Pirate’s Plunder.

He had decided to leave when he spotted a woman. She was not overly tall by Turgonian standards, but her gray-blond hair and pale complexion suggested she was foreign. She stood by an older man, fully gray but clearly very fit even at his age. So they had come.

The woman saw him first and elbowed her companion. Former Fleet Admiral Starcrest met Sicarius’s eye and nodded slightly. Then, he turned to the bar, collected a pitcher of ale and left the main room of the tavern. Had Sicarius been less observant, he would have missed the scrap of paper that fluttered to the ground. A few minutes after the admiral and the professor had left, Sicarius retrieved the scrap of paper. _Fourth floor, room 3,_ it read.

In total, the inn had only six floors, so it was a simple thing to quickly scout all of them. Sicarius lurked in the shadows of the fourth-floor landing for another minute before he was satisfied that no one had followed him from the barroom. He knocked softly on the door to room 3. Feet shuffled on the other side of the door as the occupant approached it. An eye filled the peephole and the door inched open. Admiral Starcrest beckoned him inside.

Once the door was closed, Admiral Starcrest opened his mouth to greet him, but Sicarius held up a finger in warning. He closed the air vent, lest their voices echo to other rooms in the inn. Then he drew the chairs next to the hissing radiator. Steam heat was conveniently loud, helping to drown out the susurrus of quiet conversation. He looked at the admiral, who wore an amused expression.

Admiral Starcrest dragged a small end table to the chairs and set the pitcher of ale on it. He poured out three mugs and seated himself. From closer range, Sicarius could see the wrinkles that lined his face, but he still moved with a grace that told him he had lost little of his strength. In a fight, he would be no more a liability than Books, and Sicarius had stopped worrying about the professor months ago. Professor Komitopis, on the other hand, was best kept from physical encounters even when she was thirty. Sicarius assumed that had not changed.

“We received your letter,” Starcrest said, sipping his drink. He was apparently unconcerned by the risk of consuming beverages prepared by someone else.

“I gathered as much,” Sicarius replied.

“You’ll remember Tikaya,” Starcrest said. “My wife.” Komitopis nodded at Sicarius. She sat in a chair pulled close to Starcrest’s, her legs crossed and arms folded in a posture emanating wariness.

“I appreciate you coming.” He did not miss the look that Starcrest and Komitopis exchanged at this pleasantry.

Starcrest pushed a pint glass toward Sicarius. “You saw me drink from the same pitcher. It’s not tainted,” he said. There was a warmth in his voice that Sicarius rarely heard directed at him. In fact, the only other person who spoke to him with such kindness was--had been-- Amaranthe.

Sicarius did not reach for the drink. “It could have a delayed effect.”

“I’m counting on that,” laughed Starcrest. “Take it or leave it, Sicarius. It’s ale. Nothing else.”

Sicarius watched Starcrest. The admiral had risked much in returning to Stumps, and he had brought Komitopis with him. This was not a practical assassination plot. Still, he did not drink.

“There have been complications since I wrote. My son’s parentage has been revealed to Forge. They have yet to disseminate the information widely, instead propagating the falsehood that Sespian is dead. The team led by Amaranthe Lokdon has him and he is safe for the time being. They seek the details of his lineage in secret imperial files.”

“What will they do with it?” Starcrest asked.

“Amaranthe has, I believe, a plan to reform the empire into a republic. Her team is working on drafting that plan.”

“Remarkable,” said Komitopis. She had relaxed slightly, reaching now for her pint of ale. “I should like to meet this woman. How did you find her?”

“She has a way of involving herself in things.”

Starcrest’s gaze was curious, and Sicarius suspected that he deduced more from what he had said than he had intended.

“This will require breaking up the alliance between Forge and the warrior caste,” Starcrest mused. “Does Sespian still command the loyalty of the military?”

“Unknown. They believed so, but I witnessed something tonight that concerns me.” He related the conversation between Sespian and the soldiers who had not recognized him.

“Such a thing is possible,” Komitopis confirmed. “Usually the memory is stored in some external device. To return the memory to the person requires physical contact between the person and the device. It’s most effective when the person is unconscious.”

Then the orbs in the underground chamber could belong to the soldiers who had remained loyal to Sespian. Without their support, Sespian did not have a chance. Sicarius exhaled. “I know where the memories are.”

“Most practitioners would guard memories rather carefully,” warned Komitopis. “It will not be a simple thing to remove them.”

“No.” Sicarius produced Amaranthe’s orb from his pocket, but he did not hand it to them. “I tripped an alarm acquiring this one.”

“Have you become careless in old age, Sicarius?” Starcrest asked, eyes glinting with humor. Komitopis regarded her husband’s audacity with amazement.  

“Perhaps so,” he replied lightly. Sicarius pocketed the orb. “The practitioner responsible for this has my black knife, from the ruins.”

“You lost it to him?” asked Starcrest.

Irritated, Sicarius stared at the old admiral. “No.”

“You sold it to him?”

“Her,” he corrected. “And it is irrelevant. I have this, however, which I was told could track the knife. Do you know how to use it?” Sicarius handed the tracking stone to Komitopis.  

When she touched the black stone, her eyes grew wide. “Where did you get this?”

“I told you Forge has acquired access to the technology from the ruins.”

“I didn’t want to believe you,” she whispered. “Everything we did…” She trailed off, turning the stone over in her hands. “I haven’t seen one quite like this before. It looks very similar to a translation sphere I found in the ruins, but its form is oblong. Do you mind if I…?”

Sicarius waved her off. In her haste to examine the artifact, she knocked over her chair. Somehow, her feet became tangled in its legs as well and she tripped forward. Sicarius sprang from his chair to catch her, but Starcrest beat him to it. After twenty years with this woman, he had grown used to her clumsiness. Starcrest caught her before she fell and kissed her quickly on her fast-reddening cheek. Now taking exceeding care, she brought the stone to a better-lit corner of the room. Starcrest righted the chair, and they both sat down again. Sicarius revised his assessment of Starcrest’s physical preparedness for a fight. He was far quicker than Akstyr or Books, possibly as good as Maldynado.

"This Amaranthe,” began Starcrest, leaning toward Sicarius and keeping his voice low. “How long has she worked with you?”

“I have worked for her for a year,” Sicarius said.

Starcrest’s eyebrow twitched. He had not missed the Sicarius’s implication, and it obviously surprised him. “And what did she do before then?”

“She was an enforcer. She irritated Hollowcrest, so he sent her to kill me.”

“I see. And this naturally led to an alliance between the two of you?” he asked dryly.

“No. I nearly killed her before I saw she wore Sespian’s bracelet. She had discovered evidence of a plot against him, and she devised a scheme to thwart the plot. It seemed the most effective way to help him.”

“Did it?”

“He survived.”

“And after? You didn’t leave?”

“No.” Sicarius narrowed his eyes, gauging whether Starcrest’s level of interest was warranted. He did, after all, need to understand Amaranthe’s role in everything, so Sicarius continued. “She knew about Sespian by then, and she got it into her mind that someday she could reconcile the two of us.”

“And has she?” Starcrest asked, his voice softer now.

Sicarius stared into the foam floating on top of his ale, considering Starcrest’s question. “She did what she could,” he answered finally. “My son does not wish for me to be in his life.” He took a drink of the beer. It bubbled on his tongue, the bitterness of the hops mingling with the unmistakable taste of alcohol. The effect he felt was immediate: a strange relaxation spread through his muscles and his worries seemed to lessen. _Seemed_ to, he reminded himself, swallowing another mouthful.

Starcrest took a swig of his own ale and set it down on the table. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Sicarius sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “What happened cannot be changed. It is better now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Amaranthe has forgotten who I am.”

“I see,” said Starcrest, and Sicarius feared that he did. “That’s why you have the orb.”

Several minutes passed in silence. Sicarius felt Starcrest’s gaze, but he did not meet it. From time to time, he looked from side to side, but there were only the three of them in the room. After a while, he heard Komitopis’s footsteps as she padded across the room. She sat in the open chair and looked at her husband. Sicarius watched as some communication pass between them, completely mystified what it was. Bitterly, he remembered how Amaranthe looked at him like that and knew exactly what he was thinking. Or she used to, anyway.

“Sicarius,” Starcrest said gently. “Wouldn’t it be easier to do all of this if Amaranthe knew you were on her side? You have the orb. It is a very simple thing to return her memories to her.”

Sicarius shook his head. “For the past year, she has been seeking exoneration from crimes she did not commit. She would have earned this months ago if she did not associate with me.”  

“Why did she then?” Starcrest asked.

“Before she forgot me, she loved me,” he said, voice perfectly calm. Komitopis’s eyes were round with shock, but Starcrest only nodded. “And I was too selfish to leave.”  

"You care about her,” Starcrest said. It was not a question, so Sicarius did not answer. “You know, she probably wouldn’t be very happy with your decision right now.”

Sicarius snorted. “No. But she’s not to know.” He turned to Komitopis. “How does the tracking device work?” he asked her.

Komitopis depressed a spot on the tracking device and rotated a hidden dial. A scale map of Stumps appeared. “There,” she pointed at a small red dot. She tapped the dot, and an image of Sicarius’s knife seemed to float above the map. “Fortunately, that appears to be the only… artifact in the city at the moment. This device should be able to identify anything of alien origin.”

Sicarius scanned the map. The practitioner was in the boneyard, far from the abandoned factory where Amaranthe hid. “Then she’s safe,” he said quietly. “For now.” Some tension left his shoulders. He reversed the motions Komitopis had made, turning off the tracking stone, which he put back in his pocket. Then, he turned to Starcrest. “Will you help them, Admiral? This is larger than anything Amaranthe’s ever attempted. Her schemes are creative, but… frequently imprudent.”

Starcrest scrutinized him, taking in the fitted black clothing and soft boots he’d worn for the past thirty years. “You’ve changed, Sicarius,” he said at last. He held Sicarius’s gaze. “Yes. I will help. I don’t know what I’ll be able to do, but I will help. Where can we find her?”

“You know Stumps well?”

“Twenty years ago I did.”

“Then I will take you. I will meet you here at dawn.” He stood, prepared to leave.

“One more thing, Sicarius,” said Starcrest. “Don’t confuse sacrifice with nobility.” Starcrest’s gaze turn to his wife. “Love and forgiveness are worth the fight.” Komitopis touched Starcrest’s hand and smiled softly. In nineteen years, their bond had become almost a tangible thing. Sicarius looked away, oddly affected by the intimacy of that simple gesture.  

“Some things cannot be forgiven, sir,” he said. He walked out the door. Alone in the deserted hallway of the inn, he acknowledged a second truth.

Some people cannot love.  

*~*~*~*

Sespian and Amaranthe had begun sifting through the lifted files as soon as they returned to the factory. It was not so simple as locating the child named Sicarius as none of the children were given names. However, the Sicarius for whom they searched had “succeeded” in the program, so all of the children who had been killed—murdered—by Hollowcrest were ruled out. That left six, out of hundreds.

Basilard carried two steaming mugs of tea to the table where they worked. Sespian accepted one gratefully. It smelled of cinnamon and spices, like the apple tea he had once loved.

_Have you learned anything?_ Basilard signed.

“There are six candidates,” said Amaranthe. “He’s blond, so it is unlikely to be the son of two Turgonians. That rules out one of the six.”

_Do they describe the parents’ professions?_ Basilard asked.

“Yes, if we cross-reference with the list of parents. Why?” Amaranthe pulled out the twenty-five or so pages of adult names, occupations, and lineages.

_His mother was a professor. His father, an army officer._

“Army officer sounds promising,” said Sespian, hope rising in his chest. “Most of them are warrior-caste.”

“Hmm.” Amaranthe’s forehead creased in confusion. “None of these five had professors for mothers.”

“What about the one we ruled out?”

“Army officer father… Turgonian, obviously, but his mother was Kendorian. And…” Amaranthe flipped through the sheets of paper. “A professor mother. Her father was Kyattese. With that ancestry, it is certainly possible for a child to have blond hair.”

“And…?”

Amaranthe frowned. “The father wasn’t warrior caste. It says here he distinguished himself in the Western Seas conflict, earning the promotion to officer. And, apparently, attracting Hollowcrest’s attention.” She turned to the mother’s history. “But wait. The mother’s mother was Amaris Suncrest. Warrior-caste.”

“My great-grandmother. And my mother.” Sespian sighed. “Is it enough?”

“It’s something, at least,” Amaranthe comforted him, laying her hand on top of his. And just like that, he lost himself yet again in her warm brown eyes. It was so easy to hope when she looked at him like that.

Books entered the kitchen from his study. He eyed Amaranthe’s hand speculatively and raised an eyebrow at Sespian. Amaranthe removed her hand. “What have you learned?” he asked.

Amaranthe summarized the discoveries from the files.

Books nodded. “Tenuous, but your mother was Empress. Many emperors have had equally tenuous claims to the throne, but with the might of the army, they were able to secure their power.”

Sespian and Amaranthe exchanged a look. “That could be more difficult than we anticipated,” Amaranthe said. “We met two soldiers in the barracks who had no idea who Sespian was. Never heard of him.” She dropped her head in her hand, massaging her temples. “There’s nothing more that can be done tonight. See you in a few hours, boys.” She pushed back from the table and left for her bedroom. Sespian watched her leave, wishing he could do something to reassure her.

Morning—or what passed for morning in the middle of winter—came quickly. It was dark yet when the team left, a gray dawn only barely lightening the horizon when they returned. A block from the factory, Amaranthe held up her hand, signaling the men to stop.

_I thought I saw movement ahead. Basilard?_ He nodded, and they crept cautiously around the building. A few minutes later, they rejoined the group.

“Nothing,” said Amaranthe. “Must have been a trick of the light.”

“Any tracks?” asked Sespian.

_Only ours,_ Basilard signed.

The team jogged back to the factory, but Sespian lingered outside. The footprints of the team were everywhere, obscuring what other sign may have been there. Sespian walked past the factory, where the snowy street was relatively undisturbed, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary, only a few prints so small they must have belonged to a child. Odd, but not unheard-of: to his shame, many children lived on the streets of Stumps. For the most part, they passed underfoot unnoticed. Sespian abandoned his investigation. It was breakfast time, anyway.

Happily, Basilard had already started the porridge and heated water for tea. There would be no repeat of the previous day’s culinary disaster. He waved at Sespian as he entered. _Give it a stir in a few minutes, would you? I’d like to change clothes._ Sespian nodded and Basilard disappeared into the sleeping room.

“Sespian! Cousin!” Maldynado greeted him. “My mother’s related to the Suncrests through her paternal grandmother, you know. We’re practically brothers.”

“Indeed.” Sespian did not want to encourage Maldynado and his notions of familial intimacy. He turned to Books and Amaranthe, who were bent over the purloined files. “Learn anything new? Where are the other five assassins?” he asked, taking the seat next to Amaranthe. Surreptitiously, he slid his chair a few inches closer to Amaranthe’s.

“These training files only go up to age 13,” she said, gesturing to the record of the child they suspected was Sicarius. Sespian leaned over to read the file better. He felt her breath puff on his cheek as she continued talking. He hoped the rush of blood to his face was not too obvious. “We only know the date of birth and the aptitude scores. Any details on where they were ultimately sent would be in the mission files. Sicarius—or the one we think is Sicarius, anyway—was the first child to survive the training program. The program ended twenty years ago, around the time you were born.”

“Coincidence?” he asked, sitting back. To his dismay, Amaranthe seemed oblivious to his proximity. Maldynado, standing just behind Amaranthe, gave him a thumbs-up sign. He scowled, which only encouraged Maldynado to grin more widely.

Amaranthe shrugged and looked to Books. “That was just before the Nurian War,” he said. “I can’t think of why that would have halted the program. Perhaps one of the assassins switched sides, and the emperor realized how dangerous a rogue assassin could be.”

“Hmm,” she said. “How old were the other assassins?”

“Three, four, seven, nine and eleven,” Books answered.

“It must have been something Sicarius did, then,” she speculated. “They certainly weren’t deterred by the number of children they were sacrificing.”

Basilard appeared at the door of the sleeping room, reminding Sespian that he ought to have been stirring breakfast. But Basilard showed no interest in the porridge, instead gesturing to Sespian to join him. Giving up on Amaranthe—either she wished to forget what happened the night before, or she didn’t want the men to know about it, or she was simply to wrapped up in her work—he gladly left Books and Amaranthe to their theories.

He was not entirely surprised to find Sicarius waiting with Basilard in the room. Sicarius stood stiffly, hands behind his back. Accustomed to the assassin’s usually emotionless façade, Sespian thought he noticed faint lines of tension around his mouth and a darkness in his eyes that was emptier than usual. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought the assassin was concerned about something. Or someone.

_I have information for you,_ Sicarius signed. Sespian watched him silently, waiting for him to continue. He did. _You have discovered by now that some of the soldiers in the Barracks no longer remember you. I know where those memories are._

_Yes. I also heard Ravido talking about it, while I was in the duct system._ Sespian thought he saw a flicker of surprise in Sicarius’s eyes. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt fairly certain this was news to him. _Can they be restored?_ Sespian asked.

_Yes._ Sicarius’s eyes regained their flat black expression.

_How long will it take?_

_Unknown. It depends on how many there are, and how difficult it is to get them past the practitioner. A week, maybe._

_And you can do this?_

_Yes. I will._ His absolute confidence surprised Sespian, but he would be grateful for the help. Besides, it was a mission that required no blood be shed, so he had few qualms about dispatching the entirely competent assassin.

_This is the same woman who took Amaranthe’s memory?_

Sicarius met his eyes but did not answer immediately. _I do not believe you want that one back_ , he signed at last.

Sespian shook his head. Of course he didn’t. Amaranthe losing her memory of Sicarius had made things so much simpler. Without the assassin lurking nearby, he felt he was pursuing a just path: that he had broken from the string of Turgonian emperors who relied on force and trickery to accomplish their ends. Even if he couldn’t win Amaranthe’s heart, righteousness was worth something. _Is that all?_

_No. I have found two allies for you. They are waiting outside._

Sespian raised a skeptical eyebrow. _Who?_ But Sicarius had already turned to scale the wall and leave the factory. Sespian motioned for Basilard to follow. Backup – or a witness, at least – was generally a good idea.

Outside the factory, a tall, aging Turgonian waited in the snow. Next to him stood a blonde woman with sparkling green eyes. She was tall as well, though not as tall as the Turgonian. As he approached, the man snapped to attention.

“At ease,” Sespian said. A moment later, he recognized him. “Admiral,” he added. He glanced at Sicarius, whose face had regained its usual impassivity.

“Yes, Sire,” the admiral said.

“I’m afraid that title is no longer mine,” Sespian said grimly.

“Just as Admiral is no longer mine,” he replied. “Starcrest will do. And this is my wife, Professor Komitopis.”

“Tikaya, please,” she said, nodding at Sespian. “Komitopis seems rather difficult for Turgonians to manage.”

“Welcome, both of you.” Sespian smiled. “I must say, though, I’m confused as to how you came here.” He glanced uneasily at the assassin. Sicarius had not moved.

“Sicarius sent me a letter,” Starcrest said.

Sespian schooled his features, determined not to let his surprise show. “And?”

“We worked together almost twenty years ago, the first time Turgonians tried to use these alien-made weapons,” Starcrest explained. “Sicarius helped us prevent Raumesys from getting a slew of rockets that would have killed thousands.”

Sespian cast a doubtful glance at the assassin. “Is that so?” he asked.

“Starcrest tricked me into helping him. Still,” Sicarius paused, tilting his head slightly, “I do not regret it.”

At this, Starcrest grinned and clapped Sicarius on the back. Sespian saw an expression as shocked as his own cross Basilard’s face. Sicarius did not respond, exactly, but he didn’t shy away, either. “It would seem the emperor who exiled me is no longer in power, and that his successor could use some assistance,” Starcrest said. Gesturing to his wife, he continued, a smile on his face. “My wife could not believe that the Turgonian savages were considering some sort of representative government, so she tagged along as well.”

“Then there are several people inside whom you should meet,” said Sespian. “Will you come in?”

Basilard held the door open, and Starcrest and Tikaya passed through. Sespian looked at Sicarius. He did not desire the assassin’s company, but it seemed churlish not to at least formally invite him to join. “Are you coming?” he asked stiffly.

Sicarius shook his head. “No.” He turned and walked away. After a few strides, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “If you need me, you need only ask.” And he was gone.

Sespian stared at the empty street, perplexed. Sicarius had gone to great lengths to bring Starcrest to him, and he was probably running off to start working on Sespian’s soldier problem. Despite his resolve not to use the ethically ambiguous methods of past emperors, he was starting to feel… grateful for Sicarius’s help. It was distressing.

Putting these worries away for later, Sespian followed Basilard into the factory. Outside the door to the kitchen, he stopped. “Wait here a moment,” he said. “I should probably warn them you’re coming.” He stepped inside.

“Amaranthe? Books?” They looked up from their work. “There’s someone here to see you. I think he can help us.” He opened the door fully, inviting Starcrest and Tikaya in.

 “Pardon our intrusion,” said Starcrest. “But a comrade of yours recruited us for assistance in the current situation. We’d like to help. I’m former Fleet Admiral Starcrest, and this is my wife, Professor Tikaya Komitopis.”

Amaranthe’s mouth fell open in shock. She stood too quickly, knocking over her chair as she did so, and it clattered loudly to the floor. Sespian flushed, mortified that he had surprised her so. He probably should have mentioned _who_ had come to help them. Maldynado flashed a knowing smirk at the expression on his face, and he hastily schooled his features to something more befitting an emperor.

“I’m Amaranthe Lokdon,” she stammered. “Books, er, Professor Mugdildor, and Maldynado, and Basilard.” She gestured at each man in turn. “There’s also Akstyr, our practitioner, but I’m not sure where he’s gone to.”

Tikaya smiled warmly, at Amaranthe in particular. “I’ve heard so much about you,” she said.

“Have you really?” Amaranthe looked at Sespian, an eyebrow raised. He shrugged. He wondered what Sicarius had told Tikaya about Amaranthe to engender such overt friendliness.

“So, Professor,” began Starcrest. “Tell me about your plans.”

Maldynado groaned, earning glares from Sespian and Amaranthe. Unperturbed, Books launched into a description of his proposal. Though he spoke for nearly twenty minutes without taking a breath, Starcrest and Tikaya listened attentively.

“Fascinating,” said Tikaya. “There’s hope for you brutes yet.” She nudged Starcrest teasingly, who smiled back at her.

“I heard you have a memory problem,” said Starcrest. At the alarmed look that passed between Books and Maldynado, he clarified. “With the soldiers. They’ve forgotten Sespian?”

“We think so,” said Sespian. He described the events of the night before. “We do, however, know where the memories are now. This problem will soon be under control.”

“Yes, I gathered as much from Sicarius,” remarked Starcrest. Noticing Amaranthe’s confused expression, Starcrest switched topics. “What were you doing in the Imperial Barracks?”

“Researching my father’s lineage,” Sespian explained. “He is descended from the warrior caste, but only through the matrilineal line. Still, it’s a claim.”

“Well.” Starcrest steepled his fingers, leaning back in his chair. “We have some work to do.”

*~*~*~*

Satisfied that Starcrest and Komitopis were happily scheming with Amaranthe, Sicarius jogged back to the busier city streets. His organ meat had frozen overnight, which did preserve it temporarily, but it was best if he dried it and pressed it into bars while it was still relatively fresh. He collected it and brought it to the empty attic of the opera house. While heated somewhat from the boilers below, the attic would be deserted for most of the week, since the opera singers went on hiatus after the festivities of Solstice Day.

Sicarius pulled string across the room, hanging bits of meat and organs at intervals. Once dry, his twenty pounds of meat would weigh less than four pounds and take up a third of the volume. This would then be mixed with rendered fat at a one-to-one ratio, creating a very convenient package for travel. He had not yet decided that he would travel, but with Starcrest in the city with Amaranthe and Sespian, it might be more helpful for him to search for the international contingent of Forge, starting with Retta’s sister Suan.

His work done, Sicarius sat in a corner of the attic. He could not leave Stumps for at least another day while the meat dried. In the meantime, he would retrieve the soldiers’ memories. He wondered if the practitioner had reset the stone door leading to the memory room, or if there was a second entrance to the room from the neighboring store. He pulled out the tracking device. If the practitioner was not at the shop, he could go now.

As Komitopis had shown him, Sicarius brought up a map of Stumps. The practitioner’s store was empty. It took him a moment to locate the practitioner’s dot. When he found it at last, he cursed. Shoving the tracking device in his pocket, he vaulted out the attic window, half-running, half-sliding down the rooftop.

The practitioner had found Amaranthe.


	6. Chapter 6

Books, Amaranthe, and Starcrest circled the table, heads bent over the documents Books had so assiduously compiled over the past few weeks. Sespian listened to their conversation, occasionally supplying information or asking questions. Mostly, he watched Amaranthe. She was completely absorbed by the work. Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and she was more animated than he had seen her in days. Her optimism was contagious, and for the first time, Sespian saw the remodeling of the empire not as a remote possibility, but as a probable event.

Tikaya and Basilard sat across the room, apart from the rest of the group. Sespian had heard of her gift with languages, but that was quite different from seeing it in action. Over the course of the morning, she had already surpassed his own familiarity with Basilard’s hand-signal language. He drifted over to join them. His strategists hardly needed him, anyway.

 _It’s very impressive, actually,_ Tikaya was signing. _You’ve incorporated an entirely new grammar into a language originally limited to simple noun-verb structure. Of course, while that was sufficient for hunting, it’s wholly inadequate for daily life. Did you know there’s a standardized sign language used by the deaf on my islands?_

 _I’ve heard of it,_ Basilard replied. _Your islands sound very pleasant. Far more civilized than…_ He noticed Sespian’s approach and dropped his hands.

Sespian was embarrassed that the foreigners had such a low opinion of his empire, but he did not begrudge them the sentiment. They were right: Turgonia’s war-driven culture lacked many aspects enjoyed by the Kyattese. He smiled ruefully. “Than Turgonia, I know. I had such dreams for the empire. To liberalize the economy, encourage foreigners to move here, build schools that weren’t entirely devoted to the study of war, maybe someday even admit that magic exists…”

“Where is your practitioner, anyway?” Tikaya asked.

“He has morning watch,” said Sespian. “Funny that he didn’t come in for some breakfast…” He glanced around the room. “Maldynado?”

Maldynado was dozing in his chair. Apparently, plotting the future of the empire was somewhat less engaging for him. That, or he was recovering from his late night and early workout.

“Maldynado!”

He jerked awake. “Yes, Sire?”

“Would you go out and check on Akstyr? Bring him something to eat, please.”

He grumbled something incoherent, but nonetheless jumped to his feet and trotted out the door, grabbing a hunk of bread as he went. Sespian turned back to Tikaya and Basilard.

“Well, there’s still hope for Turgonia,” Tikaya said. She gestured toward the three schemers behind her. “You know, you’re nothing that I expected.”

He could only imagine what she had expected, recalling the Sicarius he had known, the one who spilled the heads of children on the floor without an ounce of guilt. “You knew my father when he was my age, I guess,” he said. “Was he always such a ghoul?”

“Younger than you are now, actually. He was… deadly. He interrogated and killed people with a terrifying efficiency and complete lack of emotion. And he was absolutely loyal to Turgonia.” She shivered at the memory. “We were leaving, having thwarted his entire mission, and he stood in our way, brandishing a knife. I thought he would kill us. Rias, though,” she snorted and shook her head, still in disbelief, “walked right up to him, asked a few favors, and handed him that black knife of his. He let us go.”

That did _not_ sound like Sicarius. “Why would he listen to Admiral Starcrest?”

“I don’t know.” Tikaya frowned. “Rias told him he would have been a good officer. Sicarius said that wasn’t the road fate paved for him. I’m not sure – he showed even less feeling then than he does now – but he sounded regretful. I don’t think he’s had a lot of choices in his life.”

“Huh.” Sespian knew the feeling, of having his life mapped before he even drew breath. That they shared such a connection made him uncomfortable.

Tikaya was rubbing the back of her neck. “Don’t you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Sespian asked.

Before she could reply, a blast of energy exploded in the kitchen. Sespian was knocked to the ground, his head thudding on the floor. He tried to rise, but a force held him immobile. His cheek was smashed against the concrete. Unable to move his head, he could only see from one eye. Two pairs of feet swept in the front door, and a woman’s voice rang out. “Find it!” she commanded. “I will manage them.”

Sespian strained against his bonds, using every ounce of physical force to push against them. It was useless. In his limited field of view, he could see that Books’s struggle was just as futile. Starcrest and Amaranthe, however, did not appear to be struggling, and yet Amaranthe had accomplished something as bold as a finger wiggle. He hoped the practitioner didn’t notice it.

“Not physical,” Tikaya whispered. “Mental.” He couldn’t see her, but he thought he saw Starcrest make eye contact with her and flash three fingers. Three what? Three intruders? Then Starcrest pointed with one finger. A second finger joined it. He was counting. The third finger appeared.

Mental, not physical, he thought. He threw his mind against the force holding him to the ground, and to his surprise, it budged. He lifted his head, then his shoulders, finally rising to his knees. Amaranthe, Basilard, Tikaya, and Starcrest were standing, and a moment later, he joined them.

The practitioner screamed in rage, hurling a wave of mental force at them. Sespian staggered under the new assault, but when the wave receded, the practitioner’s power seemed to lessen somewhat. When he tried to move toward the practitioner, however, he found his feet anchored to the floor.

“It’s not terribly polite to barge into someone’s kitchen and start attacking them,” said Amaranthe, her tone light. “If you’d tell us what you came for, perhaps we could make a deal.”

Sespian gaped at her. She was trying to negotiate at a time like this?

“We had a deal,” hissed the practitioner. “But you took it back. I come for what is mine.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Amaranthe. “I gave you a memory for that _thing_ and now I have no idea what it’s for. So it would seem you came out better on our deal. Now, would you please let my comrades up so we can discuss this in a civilized fashion?”

“You lie! The memory is gone! Your assassin stole it!” The practitioner was panting with exertion, but still Sespian could not move against her. She swiveled her head, scanning the occupants of the kitchen, and her look of rage morphed into a maniacal grin. “Where is he now?” she taunted. “Not that he’d be much help here.”

“You mean Sicarius?” asked Amaranthe. Her mask of amenability dissolved into an angry stare. She stomped her foot in frustration. “Everywhere I turn, it’s that cursed assassin! Am I the only one not in communication with him?”

The practitioner glared at Amaranthe. “I grow weary of your falsehoods.” The fury left her eyes, leaving them terrifyingly empty, and she raised her arms. With a flick of the wrist, a second blast of energy knocked Sespian back against the wall. He slid to the floor.

When he opened his eyes, the room seemed to waver in front of him. His mind felt foggy and his skull throbbed where it had hit the wall. He strained against the mental shackles that held him frozen, but the blow to his head had weakened him. To his left, he saw Amaranthe’s body, crumpled on the floor. It rose into the air, but oddly, not of her volition. Her limbs were hanging limply and her head lolled against her chest. With a resounding crack, Amaranthe’s body smashed against the wall. Her eyes rolled open, meeting Sespian’s for the barest of instants. Her beautiful brown eyes were apologetic, as if she had somehow failed him.

The practitioner walked toward her, her hand outstretched in a claw-like grip as she pinned Amaranthe to the wall by her neck. Amaranthe’s face was turning red, then purple, as she fought for breath. Under the same impenetrable curse as Sespian, she could not even struggle against her assailant.

Sespian scanned what fraction of the room he could see without moving his head. Books’s eyes had rolled into his head, leaving only the whites showing. A gash across his temple bled profusely. Starcrest and Tikaya lay with eyes closed. He could not see Basilard, but given the condition of the others, his hopes were not high.

He watched Amaranthe, helpless against the practitioner’s assault. Much as he resented the thought, he wished the assassin were here. But Sicarius was not there. If Amaranthe were going to survive, if any of them were going to survive, it would be up to Sespian. There was no one else.

Reaching for every ounce of strength in his body – every bit of hatred he had for his father, all of his love for his mother, the last shards of hope for his empire – he pushed against the practitioner’s will.

The practitioner’s head whipped around, facing him. “Oops, I missed one,” she said sweetly. “Good night, dear.” The last thing he saw was a wave of the practitioner’s hand. The world went black.

*~*~*~*

He would be too late. Sicarius sprinted through the streets of Stumps, drawing on his fear for strength even as he prepared to push it out of his mind when the time came for concentration. The factory loomed ahead of him, but he did not slow, only used his momentum to propel himself up the wall and across the roof.

Maldynado and Akstyr lay unmoving on the rooftop. The snow all about them was trampled with footsteps, but those were likely from the routine watches the group set out. There was no sign of a struggle. Against the practitioner, Maldynado had no defenses, and Akstyr was but a fledgling. Sicarius drew close, checking Maldynado quickly for a pulse. He was alive, but unresponsive, and there was no time to rouse him.

A few meters away, Akstyr sprawled. Sicarius saw now that his lips were moving. He had mustered a better defense than Sicarius would have anticipated. He gripped Akstyr’s arm and breathed, “Make no noise.”

Akstyr’s eyes flew open. He started at Sicarius’s appearance, but he remained silent.

 _Distract her. If she attacks you, I can kill her. But do not follow me._ Akstyr nodded.

Sicarius released him, ran silently across the flat factory roof, and slipped in the broken window of the main factory floor. He slunk atop the edge of the interior wall. A young woman he did not recognize was tearing apart Amaranthe’s room. He could only guess what she was searching for. Though if she came with the practitioner, it must have to do with the mysterious object Amaranthe had acquired.

She did not notice him drop in behind her until he clamped a hand over her mouth, a knife to her throat. In his grip, she gasped. Her eyes grew wide with fear and her heart hammered in her chest.  It would be so much easier to kill her, he thought. All he had to do was let the knife slip the barest of inches. Or twitch his hands, and her neck would be broken.

But he could not, not in Amaranthe’s own room. He fashioned a gag from one of the socks that were now strewn across the floor to muffle her cries. With the compact ties Amaranthe had acquired from Ms. Sarevic the previous fall, he bound the woman’s ankles and wrists. Securing her wrists to her ankles, he left her on the floor. She was not going anywhere anytime soon. 

Silently, he returned to the wall top and crept toward the kitchen. From his corner, he had a partial view of the room. He surveyed the scene swiftly: five unconscious bodies lay on the floor. Amaranthe was not one of them. Against his will, fear rose in his chest. He was too late; she was already gone, taken to some lair or worse. He could not – would not – contemplate worse.

Focus. He had been trained for this. Tamping down his fear, he crept closer, the entire room now revealed. He was not prepared for what he saw next.

Across the room, the practitioner pinned Amaranthe to the wall by her throat. But what utterly destroyed his focus was Amaranthe’s chilling stillness. She did not kick her legs or clutch at her throat or try to tear the practitioner’s hands away. Her eyes alone moved, darting frantically from side to side, while her body was frozen helplessly in the practitioner’s grasp. White-hot anger blinded him, and he wanted nothing more than to tear the practitioner apart, limb from limb: to fight her as he had fought so many others for Amaranthe.

He clenched his fists, nails biting into the flesh of his palms and bringing him back to reality. The practitioner was not a mundane opponent, and by the time he reached her, she would detect him and erect a defensive barrier against him that he could not penetrate. Judging by the purple hue of Amaranthe’s face, he only had one shot.

Positioning himself directly behind the practitioner, he pulled a throwing knife. He did not doubt his aim, but he hesitated. If the practitioner sensed him and moved, the knife would lodge in Amaranthe’s chest. A side attack would be safer.

As quickly as he dared, he moved to the wall on the practitioner’s left. At his feet, Basilard, Tikaya, and his son lay unconscious. Or dead. He pushed the thought from his mind: either way, he could do nothing for them now.

He aimed for the practitioner’s head and let his knife fly.

Several things happened very quickly. Akstyr appeared at the door, flinging a ball of fire at the practitioner’s back. The practitioner whirled around, instantaneously raising a shield that deflected the fireball back at Akstyr. Sicarius’s knife clinked off the shield and spun harmlessly to the ground. Akstyr fell, and the practitioner fixed her stare on Sicarius.

In the corner of his eye, he saw that Amaranthe, freed from the practitioner’s grip, had collapsed to the ground. She clutched at her throat and gasped. He knew the pain she felt, of dragging air through a crushed windpipe, and he knew she needed time to get up and escape. If he could draw the practitioner away from her and keep her on the defensive, she could not attack Amaranthe again. But how long could he give her before the practitioner killed him?

Sicarius dropped into the room and pulled another throwing knife. He knew it was futile, but he hurled it at the practitioner. She deflected it easily.

“Is that all you have, assassin?” she mocked. “And I had such high hopes. Her memory of you…” A smile spread across her face, sharp white teeth gleaming. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She _loved_ you, and you… you love her back. You! A heartless, amoral assassin, responsible for the deaths of hundreds, of men, women, and _children_.” Inwardly, he cringed at the secrets revealed—not the deaths, Amaranthe knew about those, but the feelings—but he didn’t dare take his eyes from her face to see Amaranthe’s reaction. It would only reveal to the practitioner that Amaranthe still lived.

He threw another knife. She laughed, a high-pitched cackle that made his flesh crawl.

“You were the entire reason I came to this wretched empire. The work for Ravido paid the bills, but…” Her shoulders lifted in a theatrical shrug. “Finally I had a weapon against you. I knew your weakness.” She was close enough now he could see the slight distortion of the air where her shield was, but it was seamless. There was no gap for a knife to slip through.

He had to keep her talking, to buy more time for Amaranthe. “How did you acquire her portrait?” he asked flatly.

“My connection to the military gave me access to certain confiscated items. All you had to do was show up. And with the idea subtly planted in your mind, left by a beguiling melody echoing on the rooftop, how could you not?”

So his hideout was not as secret as he had believed. He was trained to resist mental influence from the Science, but he had not detected it beneath the music at the opera house. Irritated at his failure, he hurled another knife at her. He could blame no one else for this mess. And if Amaranthe died… He might as well have done it himself.

“Your knives are no good,” she said, taking another step toward him. “Not like this one.” She pulled out his black knife, grinning triumphantly. “A fine prize to take back to my people.”

He watched her calmly, never taking his eyes off her. He knew he was running out of time, and she would strike soon. In his peripheral vision, he saw Amaranthe stumble to her feet. An idea sprang into his mind. Not an Amaranthe-plan, but it just might work. He flung another knife at the practitioner, this time aiming it so it would fall near Amaranthe. Amaranthe glanced at him and picked up the knife. She crept behind the practitioner.

The practitioner walked toward him, a gleeful rictus warping her face, eyes shining with the anticipated pleasure of vanquishing the fabled assassin. Feigning panic, Sicarius threw his last five knives in rapid succession. He backed against the wall, deliberately widening his eyes. The practitioner’s grin grew wider, teeth glinting unnaturally in the dim kitchen light. Knife in one hand, she raised her other arm, fingers bent like talons. She would incapacitate him then kill him with his own knife. How poetic.

In the tingling of the hairs on the back of his neck, Sicarius felt the buzz of her imminent attack. “Now!” he barked. Amaranthe lunged, thrusting the knife into the practitioner’s back. Fury ebbed from the woman’s eyes, supplanted by shock and pain. Frantically, she reached behind herself, trying to remove the knife from her back and dropping the black knife to the floor in her panic.

Amaranthe fell back, landing with a soft thud. Wordlessly, Sicarius picked up his black knife and sliced the practitioner’s throat. Blood gushed onto the floor. He stepped away to keep it from running over his boots. The practitioner gurgled, trying and failing to suck in one last breath of air. A moment later, she was still.

Sicarius glanced at Amaranthe. She sat, knees pulled defensively against her chest with her left arm. She stared the practitioner’s body. Her face was blank, her right hand at her throat. The red marks left by the practitioner’s hands would bruise badly. He ached to wrap her in his arms, to comfort her now that the danger was passed. His hand began to reach for her of its own accord, but he pulled it back, pressing his fist into his thigh. He could not touch her, ever again.

“Have Akstyr heal your neck,” he told her. To his own ears, his voice sounded strained. He hoped she wouldn’t notice. “You can breathe now, but if there are internal injuries, the swelling could kill you still.” She nodded, but distractedly.

He forced his attention to the corpse. There was one last thing he had to do before he could be sure she would not bother them again.

“Leave. You don’t want to see this.” He would save her that, at least.

She didn’t move. She composed her features, covering up her shock and shifting her attention to Sicarius. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but shut it again.

“The practitioner can heal herself as long as she can talk,” he explained. “Her head must be removed.”

“I know.” Amaranthe’s voice came out in a gravely rasp. She swallowed and massaged her throat.

“There’s someone in your room. I have restrained her, but you probably want to talk to her,” he said.

She still hadn’t moved. “Will you be here when I come back?”

Looking into her eyes, he wanted nothing more than to promise that yes, of course, he would be. He shook his head and lowered his face. “No.”

There was a pause, and he knew she was not yet done with her questions. She never was. “What she said… was it true?”

For a moment, he saw two futures. In one, he would be at her side, forever, attracting the wrath of foreigners and Turgonians alike, eternally placing her in danger. One day, he _would_ be too late, and she would not be able to defend herself. His son would despise him, resenting her choice and hating him for what he had done. In the other future, he was alone, but she would be safe, and someday, she would be happy with someone else, somebody who could return her love, as she deserved.

It was no choice. “No,” he replied coldly, throwing his iciest glare at her. “I am an assassin. I have been trained since childhood to kill without remorse or regret. You should know I am incapable of love.”

She pushed herself to her feet. Wobbling slightly, she took a few steps toward the door. She stopped and turned around. “But why, Sicarius?” she asked, her brow crumpled in confusion. Her voice was raw, and he worried about the pain it must be causing her. But she would burble on. “Why did you come here? Not that I’m not grateful, but you always seem to be there just in the nick of time. And then you not only save us, but you go out of your way to keep from killing people. I mean, I appreciate your consideration, but… If you’re an assassin, then why are you so…” She eyed his knives scattered about the kitchen. “So humane? What kind of assassin _are_ you?” Her voice cracked, and she rubbed her throat again.

Schooling his features in the expressionless façade he wore so frequently, he met her eyes, but said nothing.

She crossed her arms and returned his glare. “Well, you didn’t kill the guard in the secret office. Or whoever it is you tied up in my room. Why not?”

“It was not practical at the time. If you wish, I will kill her now.”

Her eyebrows rose. This Amaranthe was even less accustomed to his bluntness than the real Amaranthe was. He corrected himself: this _was_ the real Amaranthe. Sicarius shifted his attention to the practitioner. He thought he heard a small sigh, but finally Amaranthe turned and left the room.

The practitioner’s lips did not move. She was probably dead, but he had seen seemingly dead practitioners cast a spell and return to life before. He reached around her torso to heft her over his shoulder. Someone stirred across the room. Suppressing his irritation that at this interruption, he replaced the body and looked up. It was Starcrest.

Starcrest sat up, gingerly fingering a purpling bruise on his forehead. He was staring at the prone figure of his wife. “Tikaya? Is she all right?” he asked, his voice shaky.

“Yes. Unconscious.”

Starcrest exhaled, his relief audible. “Seems I’m the one losing it in my old age,” Starcrest muttered.

“She was a powerful practitioner, sir,” said Sicarius. “When I first encountered her, she bested me.”

“How did you kill her now?” With some difficult, Starcrest got to his feet. Aside from the bump on his head, he appeared uninjured.

“I distracted her while Amaranthe did it,” he said. “I’m cleaning up now.”

“Be sure you remove her head.”

“Known.” Sicarius bent to his task.

“Sicarius,” said Starcrest quietly. “I heard what you said to her. You’re making a terrible mistake.”

Sicarius looked up at the older man, the only person, besides Amaranthe, who had ever treated him as anything but the emperor’s pet assassin. His eyes were full of concern, worry lines marking his brow. Sicarius nodded. “Known,” he repeated.

“It’s not too late,” Starcrest argued. “Give the memory back to her.”

“And Sespian?”

“He’s young. He will find someone else. Any fool can see she is not in love with him.” Starcrest walked over to Sicarius and crouched beside him. “You have so much potential, Sicarius. Don’t waste it.”

Sicarius snorted. “My potential is well documented,” he said, gesturing to the files on the table. “I have met it.”

Starcrest shook his head. He reached out and tapped Sicarius’s chest. “No,” he said. “You haven’t.” He took the knife from Sicarius’s hand. Stunned, Sicarius let him. “I will take care of this now. We’ll dispose of it tonight, once it’s dark.” Starcrest set Sicarius’s black knife on the ground, taking instead one of the throwing knives. He lifted the body over his shoulder and left the kitchen.

Sicarius began to collect his remaining throwing knives. Each one was meticulously cleaned with a soft black cloth before he sheathed it. He looked around the kitchen.

He was stalling, and he knew it.

He had not yet found the first knife he had thrown, the one that had bounced away when Akstyr provoked the practitioner to defend herself. It was likely not far from the place where Amaranthe had very nearly been strangled. He ran his hand down the wall, finding strands of her hair stuck between bricks. It had been a close thing. Closer than he wanted to contemplate.

To his left, he saw the glint of his knife where it had slipped behind an upside-down crate. He picked it up, wiping off the dust it had attracted on the floor. He heard another person move behind him.

“Father?” a quiet voice asked.

The knife fell out of his hands, clattering to the floor. He spun around. Sespian sat up, rubbing his head. His eyes were bleary and blood trickled from a wound on his forehead. Otherwise, he appeared unharmed.

“Uh, sorry,” Sespian mumbled. “Sicarius. I hit my head rather hard.”

“Apparently,” said Sicarius, mastering the emotion that the single word had stirred in him. He picked up the knife and wiped it again. “Are you well?”

“I will be.” Sespian looked around the room. “Where’s Amaranthe? Where’s the practitioner?”

“Palavering. The practitioner is dead. There were only two women?”

“Yes, only,” Sespian snorted. “The practitioner and her assistant. She was looking for something. Something she traded for a memory.”

Sicarius raised an eyebrow at this.

“You knew about the trade?” Sespian asked.

“No.” Coldness crept into his breast. Amaranthe had _traded_ her memory of him _willingly_? He had believed it was stolen, against her consent. But no. A torrent of useless, emotional responses threatened to overpower his equanimity. Keeping his voice flat, he asked, “Any idea what the thing did?”

“No, and I don’t think she did, either. I would guess it was pretty valuable, with the way the practitioner went on.” Sespian watched him curiously, as if he had seen the emotions trying to emerge from behind his mask.

He swallowed, pushing back anger and sadness that made him want to roar with pain. He would give anything for her, but she had set him aside for a shiny trinket she didn’t even understand? He drew a deep breath. In a perfect monotone, he asked, “Does she still have it?”

“I think so,” said Sespian hesitantly. “Why don’t you ask her?”

With more force than was strictly necessary, Sicarius sheathed the last knife. “No. I’m finished here. I will help you regain the loyalty of the soldiers, but then I leave.” He turned to go, but remembered he carried one thing of Amaranthe’s that he never wished to see again. He fished the memory-sphere out of his pocket and tossed it to Sespian. Sespian caught it just barely, reflexes dulled by his ordeal. “That’s her memory. Do with it what you will.”

Sicarius pulled himself over the wall and left the factory. A wrenching agony in his breast, so foreign to him, made him feel that he had left half his heart behind. Bitterly, he realized he had been right. Friendship was as selfish as any other relationship, only worse because it carried the promise of loyalty. It had seemed incredible, but he had truly believed her when she had said she loved him. How could he not, when she looked at him with those doe-like eyes? With a jolt, he remembered the umpteen times he had witnessed her talk people into things they wouldn’t otherwise consider. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He was a fool to feel this way.

He pushed all thoughts of her out of his mind, cauterizing his internal wounds. It would be a long day. 


	7. Chapter 7

Sespian watched Sicarius leave, dumbly holding the sphere in his hand. It crossed his mind that, despite his intentions, he had nonetheless used the assassin, and he was about to use him again. The man had saved all of them. For what? He could not believe that his father cared that much about him. His father didn’t care about anyone. He looked at the sphere. Figures moved within, and he peered more closely. It was Amaranthe, he realized, with his father. Entranced, he gazed into it. Sicarius and Amaranthe were sitting in the back of a lorry, bumping down a mountain road.

“It’s a memory sphere,” Tikaya said softly. “That must be Amaranthe’s.”’        Sespian tore his eyes from the sphere and looked at Tikaya. Her eyes were narrowed in suspicion. Or maybe it was disappointment.

“How did you get it?” she asked. “The memories held there… they are very personal. They should be returned to Amaranthe.” She held out her palm.

Sespian avoided Tikaya’s eyes. Of course it was personal, but would he ever have another chance to understand why Amaranthe had kept the assassin around so long? Besides, she didn’t remember any of it. It was like none of it had actually happened.

Except that it had, and what he was about to do was a great violation of Amaranthe’s—and Sicarius’s—privacy. He just didn’t see another way. He wanted to know. “Sicarius gave it to me,” he explained, ignoring her outstretched hand. “I think he wanted... I don’t know what. He doesn’t want it anymore.”

Tikaya raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Does it have sound?”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You think that I would enable you to further transgress on their memories?” Tikaya shook her head. “That goes against all standards of ethics. The Kyattese use these devices only insofar as they provide therapeutic—”

“I understand. But Sicarius was ready to throw it away.”

"Then give it back to Amaranthe.”

“But what if there was a reason he wished to destroy it? What if it is for the best that she… forget him?”

She sighed. “Fine. If you hold it like this.” Tikaya showed him how to place his fingers.

Suddenly, Sespian heard Sicarius talking. Startled, he looked around the room, but Sicarius had not returned. Tikaya watched him still. “Did it work?” she asked frostily.

He nodded and returned his attention to the sphere. He was no longer so certain he wanted to hear sound.

_“That this works, a woman leading five men, is a marvel. I suspect it would work less well if you were sleeping with one of us.”_

He did _not_ want to hear this, but he couldn’t find it in himself to look away. His father continued talking.

_“And there’s Sespian.”_

He inhaled sharply at the sound of his name.  

_"He barely knows me! Whatever he felt, he was drugged at the time. I’m sure he’s over that initial interest.”_

_“Perhaps. But there’s already too much separating us. I wouldn’t want to add that. Also—”_

His father had wished to protect him, to give him a chance with her. The revelation stunned him. He missed what Amaranthe said next, but she was still talking when he could focus again.

_“I wouldn’t want to be a wedge between you two either.”_

The bitterness in her voice surprised Sespian. He had never heard that from her. In the orb, Sicarius leaned closer to Amaranthe, placing his hand on top of hers. Amaranthe was clearly surprised.

_“Just to be clear, you don’t share my feelings, right?”_

She waited for an answer. It was not forthcoming.

_“Sicarius? That was a question. I made sure my tone went up at the end.”_

_“I care, Amaranthe. More than I thought myself capable.”_

Sespian wrenched his fingers away from the sphere and shoved it into his pocket. Amaranthe meant something to his father, perhaps a great deal, but he pushed her away _for his sake_ , on the off chance that his drug-addled son really did have feelings for this woman. Guilt, confusion, and remorse warred with his conviction that his father was a soulless monster. He wondered if he knew the man at all.

Tikaya was still glaring at him. “There’s a reason we don’t look at—” she began, but at that moment, Amaranthe entered the room.

A thin line of dried blood ran down the side of her face, probably from the practitioner slamming her against the wall. Her hair had been pulled out of her bun in clumps and stuck out in every direction, and angry red prints in the shape of a thumb and four fingers marked her neck. She should be resting, but instead she was dragging the practitioner’s assistant into the room. The captive’s arms were still bound behind her, but her gag hung loosely about her neck. Amaranthe sat her in a chair, securing her arms to the chair back.

Starcrest appeared in the doorway behind her. He scanned the room anxiously. Seeing that Tikaya was now awake, he relaxed and rinsed the blood from his hands before he joined her.

“I’m too old for this,” Tikaya complained.

“You and me both,” Starcrest agreed, hugging her close.

Books was awake. He had apparently gone out to find Maldynado while Sespian was distracted by the orb, because the fop stood next to him gaping at the destruction in the kitchen. Akstyr was still in a heap by the door. Amaranthe shook his shoulder, but he did not stir. She checked for his pulse, and he confirmed that he was indeed alive by snoring loudly. She shrugged and turned to face the rest of the room.

“That’s Retta.” Her voice grated like sandpaper on rust and she could barely speak above a whisper. Her hand moved to her throat. “For the love of the empire, do _not_ let her escape. I have questions for her still.” She looked at Tikaya. “You may be interested to know that she is the one who used the Kyattese memory stone on me to…” Her brow furrowed and her words trailed off.

“What is it with you Turgonians?” muttered Tikaya. Thankfully, Amaranthe did not hear her. Or chose not to.

“What happened to the practitioner?” Books asked.

“With Sicarius’s help, I killed her,” Amaranthe said. She carefully enunciated each syllable, and Sespian had the impression she was rationing her words. “This infamous assassin has a propensity for showing up in the nick of time, sparing lives when he can—” she motioned to Retta, “—and disappearing.” Despite the pain it must have caused her, her voice rose, the careful control she had exerted slipping ever so slightly. “What’s more,” she rasped, taking a breath, “I seem to be the only person here not in regular contact with him.”  

She looked from one man to the next, the calmness of her voice belied by the fire in her eyes. Sespian had never seen her angry. By the looks on the faces of the other men, neither had they. It was terrifying.

“Well, I haven’t seen him, actually,” said Books. “Not since the night you… he…” The usually eloquent professor stumbled over his words under Amaranthe’s icy glare.

“I know my memory’s been tampered with, and I know he worked with us for the past year. What I don’t understand is why. And why, for an assassin, he’s so damned _humane_ ,” she said. “Can any of you tell me that?”

Books stared at his feet. Maldynado shifted uneasily. Sespian did his best to avoid her eyes, the weight of her memory-sphere heavy in his pocket. He envied Akstyr, who was still unconscious from the practitioner’s attack.

 _You wanted to help him,_ Basilard signed.

“But _why_?”

Had a pin dropped in the silence that followed, everyone in the room would have jumped.

“Fine. Don’t tell me.” Amaranthe covered her face with her hand, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Pack your things. We move as soon as I get back.” She turned to leave.

Maldynado stepped in front of her, blocking the exit. “Boss, why don’t you wait for Akstyr to wake up? You’re hurt.”

She waved him off. “Later. Let him rest.” Evading Maldynado, she slipped out the door.

Sespian glanced at the shell-shocked expressions on the team’s face. Only Starcrest and Tikaya were unmoved. Actually, Sespian thought he saw some irritation in Starcrest’s expression as he surveyed the men.

“You’re not going to say anything?” Starcrest asked incredulously. “After everything he has done for her? For all of you?” Though he included all the men, his eyes fixed on Sespian. “After everything _she’s_ done for you?”

“At this point, I don’t know what there is to tell her,” Sespian said. “Sicarius left and he said he’s not coming back. This is what _he_ wanted.”

Starcrest’s eyes narrowed. “It is not, and you know it. Raumesys and Hollowcrest made him what he was, but with her, he’s someone different. She showed him how to be human. And you dare to take her away from him?” He shook his head in disgust. “From your own _father_?”

Sespian stared at Starcrest in disbelief. He did not want to have this conversation, not with Fleet Admiral Starcrest, not now, not ever. “I promised her I’d help her scout the next hideout,” he mumbled. Without a backward glance, he jogged out the door.

*~*~*~*

The street in front of the practitioner’s shop was deserted, as most streets in this quarter of Stumps were. From the roof, Sicarius scouted the store’s perimeter. Given Sespian’s information that the military was involved, he had expected to see soldiers, but there were none. He dropped silently into the street, a few meters away from the pawnshop.

He stole a glimpse of the store through the dirty window, aware that while he had to squint to make out anything inside, they could clearly see him against the mid-day sun reflecting off the snowy street. Though he saw no one, they could easily be hiding behind the counter or shelves. Akstyr’s skill in detecting people would be rather convenient right now.      

Nonetheless, he had operated fine by himself before he ever met the team. Standing to the side of the entryway, he pushed the door open. In a split second, he had looked into the store and memorized what he saw. The empty shelves and abandoned counter were just as they had been before. The toe of a soldier’s boot poking out slightly past the doorjamb was not.

Soldiers worked in pairs, and he had not seen the other one. He did not, however, want to give them time to rethink their ambush. He burst through the door, wresting the rifle from the soldier to his left, deftly using the butt of the rifle to knock the man out. He barely had time for this before the second soldier rushed him. He dropped the rifle and bent low, catching the second soldier beneath his center of gravity and using his momentum to flip him over his back. The soldier landed on his feet and whirled to face Sicarius again. But Sicarius had already moved behind him, drawing his black knife against the man’s throat.

“Drop the rifle,” he whispered. The soldier hesitated, and Sicarius moved his blade just enough to break the skin. “This blade never grows dull.” The soldier dropped his rifle.

Sicarius dragged him away from the store window, kicking the door shut. With his free arm, he wrestled the soldier’s arms behind his back. He sheathed the knife and tied the soldier, shoving him behind the counter. Retrieving the first soldier’s unconscious body, he tied his arms and pulled him behind the counter, leaving him out of reach of his comrade. He trusted his knots would hold for the time he needed, but for good measure, he tied the first soldier’s arms to a cabinet door.

Facing the soldiers, he drew his knife again.

“This need not cause pain,” he said. “If you answer my questions.”

The conscious soldier glowered at him.

“Who is the emperor?”

The glower turned into a confused frown. “What kind of question is that?”

“Answer it.”

The soldier didn’t seem to feel it was worth resisting such a ridiculous inquiry. “Lord Ravido Marblecrest, you dolt.”

Sicarius nodded. “And who is Sespian Savarsin?”

The soldier’s expression only grew more confused. He shook his head. “I’ve never heard of him,” he said.

Sicarius had hoped for as much. Despite the soldier’s cooperation, he could not risk them making noise while he retrieved the spheres. A swift blow to the head knocked the soldier unconscious. He gagged them both. Before descending into the cavern below, Sicarius checked their uniforms for names. Broveanu and Pokov.

To his dismay, the stone door to the second chamber remained lowered. With the practitioner eliminated, however, there was plenty of time to search for a release mechanism. Judging by the grinding noise he had heard as the door shut, he suspected it was raised and lowered by rotating a wheel concealed somewhere in the wall, with the assistance of a counterweight. The bottom of the door was level with the floor, and even if he could have found purchase there, he doubted he could have lifted the door manually. Its dimensions suggested that it would weigh close to a ton, assuming it was solid rock, which it appeared to be. He needed to find where one controlled the wheel to lift the gate. While concatenated pulleys and chains could feasibly extend quite far into the walls, it seemed more likely that the access point was near the door.

The wall on either side of the gate was brick. Sicarius’s fingers probed the bricks and the cracks between them, seeking any telltale variations in texture or apparent temperature that would signal a change in material. Near the floor on the left side of the gate, he found a section, a foot on each side, that was every so slightly smoother than the section above it. What was more, it felt cooler than the rest of the wall, the difference between metal and mortar. Finding no latch or handle, Sicarius pressed it gently and the entire section popped off, revealing a hand crank.

Here, unfortunately, was a dead end: the crank was locked in place. Sicarius rocked back on his heels, considering how he would have designed this system. Being able to raise and lower the door with impunity from within the cellar compromised the security: trespassers, trapped in the orb room, need only have an accomplice on the other side to let them out once they triggered the trap. The trap, then, must be set somewhere else. Somewhere the proprietor had access to.

He climbed back up the ladder and rummaged through the drawers and shelves behind the counter. They were empty, but when he felt under the countertop, he found a dial with three setting labeled in Kendorian: _open, armed_ and _disable_. He switched it to _open_ , hearing a faint click somewhere below. Returning to the crank by the gate, he found that it turned easily now. The door rose slowly. When it reached the top, Sicarius heard the clunk of some mechanism settling into place. Was this the trap resetting itself? To check, he returned again to the dial under the counter. Sure enough, it had slid to the _armed_ setting. Sicarius turned it one notch further so it was set to _disable_.

Once more, Sicarius skimmed down the ladder and jogged across the chamber of pillars. The shelves in the next room were just as he remembered them, if a bit more full. Selecting a sphere from the shelf nearest the door, he lifted it and waited for the warning system to click on. It did not.

He wondered what the practitioner would have done if she had inadvertently triggered her own trap from within. In his ill-considered haste on his first foray into the orb room, he had not searched the room as thoroughly as he should have. There was no excuse for such carelessness now. He circled the round room. Near the door, just on the other side of the wall from the wheel in the pillar chamber, there was a second wheel. Of course, if the first wheel had not turned with the trap was sprung, this wheel should _certainly_ not turn, or the trap would be worthless. He inspected it more carefully. Unlike the first wheel, this one had a tiny keyhole at the center. So the practitioner must carry a key… or have one hidden in here. Between the black pool at the center of the chamber and the shelves stacked with hundreds of spheres, there was a myriad of hiding places for such a small key. There may be other ways out, though. Though domed nearly thirty feet high, the ceiling above him was glass. If it became necessary, he could break it and climb out.

As he looked around the room considering all the places on the shelves where a key might hide, the reality of the logistics of returning the memories hit him for the first time. There were at least a thousand spheres here, maybe more. To distribute them to the right soldiers, while convincing the soldiers to maintain the pretense of loyalty until the time was right, was beyond him. If he could recruit help, there may be a chance. But he did not have Amaranthe, and he lacked her silver tongue.

He could at least test it on the soldiers upstairs. Walking up and down the aisles, he searched for Broveanu and Pokov. Fortunately, the spheres, while not alphabetized from start to finish, were at least alphabetized over small sections, as if a hundred or so had been added at a time. He suppressed a smile thinking of how the system would irk Amaranthe. He wondered briefly if she would be more distracted by the poor organization or the logistical nightmare of distribution. And then he remembered that he was not to think of her again.

Eventually, he found both Broveanu and Pokov in the fourth set of spheres he checked. Taking them, he jogged out of the room. He was halfway up the ladder when he heard the front door of the shop shut softly. Footsteps walked across the room. They were light, not the heavy thump of soldier or enforcer boots, and they belonged to at least two people. As one rounded the corner of the counter, the steps quickened. Running to check the body, he guessed.

“He’s alive,” a woman whispered. There was a pause. “I don’t… oh, is that your sign for him? How… apt.”

Sicarius snorted. It was Komitopis and Basilard. Actually, he realized, Komitopis may be quite helpful here. She had been rather clever at problem solving in the ruins. He eased the trapdoor open and crawled out.

“It’s me,” he said. Komitopis jumped, but composed herself quickly.

 _Tikaya wanted to see the practitioner’s den_ , Basilard signed. _Now that she’s dead._

“Did you confirm that?”

“Rias took care of it. I checked,” Komitopis assured him.

“Good.” Sicarius pulled out the two soldiers’ memories. “These belong to these two men here. There is a problem, however. Follow me.” He climbed back down the ladder. Komitopis and Basilard followed. Once he reached the bottom, Sicarius turned to make sure that Komitopis didn’t miss a rung and fall off the ladder. With her grace, it was entirely possible, but she made it safely, if somewhat loudly.

“How old is this place?” Komitopis asked, eyes wide as she took in the high-ceiling cellar and its ancient pillars. “It looks like it’s been here since before Armelion was.”

“Possible.” Sicarius led them toward the blue-orb room.

“This chamber extends beyond the shop upstairs,” Komitopis observed.

Sicarius waited for her to make a point. She cast a sidelong glance at him, apparently expecting a response. There was none, and she gave up.

“You’re still not very conversational, are you?”

“No.”

They had reached the shelves of memories. Komitopis’s mouth fell open in amazement. She drifted toward the nearest shelf, staring in awe at the spheres of memory.

Basilard caught Sicarius’s eye and raised an eyebrow. _That’s all? I thought you Turgonians had more soldiers than this._

 _We do. These are—were—the loyal ones._ Sicarius grimaced, and Basilard patted his shoulder in sympathy. Any other day, Sicarius would have flinched from the simple expression of human comfort, but today had been particularly trying. He nodded once at Basilard and returned his attention to the spheres.

“You see the problem?” Sicarius asked Komitopis.

“Distribution,” she murmured. “It’s not my specialty. Rias, however… well, he and Marl were busy packing up the new government plans for the move.”

“They are moving?”

“Yes, immediately.”

Sicarius approved. Their current location was, obviously, compromised. Though the practitioner was dead, her assistant knew about it, and whatever the plans for the girl were, they probably did not include permanently silencing her. Komitopis cleared her throat, and Sicarius wondered how long she had been watching him.

“Don’t you want to know where?”

“No,” he said tersely. He gestured to the spheres and stared at her expectantly. He hoped this deterred the woman from telling him anyway.

Komitopis sighed. “How are they organized here?”

“Sets of a hundred or so are alphabetized. I found the spheres for the soldiers upstairs in the same group, suggesting that the sets correspond to subdivisions in the army.”

She nodded. “Then we need only select a handful from each group and delegate to them the remaining members.”

“Too risky. We can’t trust them.”

“These are the _only_ soldiers you can trust, and you won’t be able to trust them until they have their memory back. If they were loyal enough to warrant brainwashing, don’t you think they would want to help?”

Sicarius did not reply.

“Look, we have two soldiers upstairs. Let’s see how they respond to getting their memory back, and then decide who we can and can’t trust.”

“And if they reveal us?”

“Then we detain them.” Komitopis crossed her arms, challenging Sicarius to object. Her defiance reminded him of… But such thoughts were forbidden.

“They won’t do as I say,” Sicarius said. “I’m a notorious assassin.”

Komitopis smirked. “Then I will talk to them.”

“You’re a foreigner.”

“I’m not,” said a third voice, improbably cheerful in the somber atmosphere of the underground chamber. “Say, what is this place?” Maldynado swaggered into the room. “Oh, hullo, Bas. So quiet there I didn’t notice you.” He nodded at Sicarius and Komitopis.

“How did you find us?” Komitopis asked.

“I followed you. Amaranthe and Sespian are out somewhere—” this news satisfied Sicarius, though he wondered if he should have perhaps warned his son of the fickleness of woman, “—and everyone else is so _cranky_ back at camp. Besides, I didn’t want to miss out on any more excitement today.” Maldynado walked along the shelf, running his finger across the spheres. “So this is where Amaranthe’s memory was taken… Fascinating.”

 “We have a task for you,” said Komitopis. “We have memories for the soldiers upstairs. We need to return the memories, then convince them to pretend loyalty to—”

“To my brother, I know,” Maldynado finished her sentence. Komitopis looked at him in surprise. “Oh, you didn’t know? Yes, it’s my _brother_ responsible for leading the warrior caste in this coup.” He shrugged. “Let’s give this thing a try, shall we? The spheres? How exactly do they work?”

Reluctantly, Sicarius handed him the spheres. If this went badly, he would be prepared to neutralize the risk the soldiers presented. Komitopis explained the mechanics of memory transfer as they returned to the ladder. Kneeling over the first soldier’s body, Maldynado held up his sphere.

“So I just hold it against their chest until the glowy light seeps out of it? How do I know it won’t go into me?”

“The memory recognizes its owner’s essence. Anyone else can look, but not take,” Komitopis explained. She cast a disapproving glance in the oaf’s direction. “And it’s glowing, not glowy.”

“Oh, you professors,” Maldynado said, rolling his eyes. “Let’s give this a try.” He unfastened the top few buttons of the soldier’s uniform, revealing a hairy patch of chest. “And I thought Books was a yeti,” he muttered, pressing the sphere against the soldier’s skin. The faint amber glow grew brighter, expanding from the sphere. Where it met the man’s skin, it began to seep away, its phosphorescence disappearing into his body. For a few seconds, his skin glowed as if illuminated from within. Then, it faded, and the sphere was dark.

Maldynado poked the soldier. “Are you sure Sicarius didn’t kill him? Shouldn’t he wake up?”

Sicarius glared at him. As useful as Maldynado would be for the next part, he wished he would shut his mouth.

“Give him a moment,” Komitopis whispered. “Patience.”

A minute later, the man’s eyes moved under his lids. Maldynado turned to the other three. “You’d better make yourself scarce.”

Sicarius held the trapdoor open, motioning them down. He went last, closing the door above him, but waited where he could hear the conversation above.

“Sorry about the rough treatment, soldier,” said Maldynado. “Can you tell me who Sespian Savarsin is?”

“The Emperor,” an annoyed voice replied.

“And… Ravido Marblecrest?”

“A low-down dirty warrior-caste schemer. He looks a bit like you,” the man growled.  

“Unfortunate coincidence, I’m sure,” drawled Maldynado. “You are loyal to Emperor Sespian?”

“You trying to get me to commit treason or something? Of course I am. I swore allegiance to him the day he ascended the throne, and I’d swear it again any day of the week,” the soldier declared.

Maldynado thumped on the trapdoor. “Anything else you want to know down there?”

Sicarius descended the rest of the ladder. In the dim light, he found Komitopis. _You go up. Explain your plan. I will prepare the memories_.

*~*~*~*

“Amaranthe!” Sespian called after her. “Wait!”

She stopped, not turning around. “What?”

“Thought you might like company looking for a new hideout,” he said. The look she gave him did not support this theory.

“Fine.” She started jogging again.

He fell in beside her. They ran through the old factory district. Crossing the railroad tracks toward the lake, they entered the slum where the thousands of factory workers used to live. As lakefront property, one might expect this strip of land to be highly valued real estate. However, when the factories had been running, the lake provided a convenient coolant for the equipment. A few factories in Stumps still used the lake water for cooling, releasing much hotter water—along with byproducts of manufacturing—back into the lake. The result was that near the factories, water was too polluted for swimming in the summer and ice was treacherously thin in the winter.

A few of the houses had occupants, but most were empty. Amaranthe stopped at a school that hadn’t seen students in years. After checking the perimeter, she slipped in through a broken window. Sespian followed.

They were in a first-floor classroom. The desks were gone now, the walls bare of any drawings the children may have made. A chalkboard hung at the front of the room, its last lesson long erased. Amaranthe walked to the door. It opened into a hallway, lined on both sides with lockers. Their footsteps echoed weirdly on the tiled floor.

“Plenty of rooms,” Sespian offered helpfully. “No cots, though.”

Her head jerked in what might be interpreted as a nod, but she said nothing.

“I wonder if this was here when my father was a child,” Sespian said. Had his father been a normal child, he may have gone to a school like this. He doubted it had been in Hollowcrest’s plans, however.

“Probably. Let’s find the boiler room,” she said, her hoarse voice reminding Sespian why she was so taciturn. She pointed to a staircase to their right and they began to descend.

The silence made him uncomfortable. Schools, empty of children, were eerie, he decided. Most likely, that explained why they saw no evidence of squatters throughout the building. Why stay in a place reeking of innocence gone when there were perfectly adequate houses abandoned nearby?

The level beneath the ground floor housed recreational facilities: a gymnasium taking up half the floor and a drained pool the other half. There were locker rooms and showers, but turning the faucet elicited no response. “Books can turn the water back on,” Amaranthe remarked, returning to the staircase.

The floor below was full of pipes and dust. Amaranthe followed the largest pipe, a meter in diameter, to where it originated in the boiler room. She checked the coal box, finding it empty. “The boiler doesn’t appear to be broken,” she said. “Anyway, there are only a few more months of winter. It will do.” She returned to the staircase, Sespian silently in tow.

At the ground floor, she stopped and faced him. “I’m tired,” she said, her voice still rough. “It’s been an exhausting day. Go fetch the team. I’m going to find a place to sleep here.”

“Amaranthe,” he began, reaching for her arm. She stood, motionless, entirely unresponsive to his touch. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your problem, Sire.” He flinched at the use of his title. Not so much because he knew it was illegitimate, but because of the distance between them it implied. She had used his title only rarely in the past few weeks.

“Can I help?” he asked softly.

She sighed. Raising her hand to her eyes, she shook her head. “Something—something important—has been taken away from me,” she said. “And I can sense it, but I don’t know what it is.” Her voice broke and she turned away from him. He suspected she hid tears with her hand.

Sespian became acutely aware of the memory-sphere in his pocket, burning through the fabric, demanding to return to its rightful owner. He _knew_ what she was missing and could give it back to her, if only he would give her up. If only he would forget how she had looked at him that night outside the Barracks and how she had kissed him… Surely, that had meant something? Surely he didn’t have to let her go?

Gingerly, he patted her on the back. Her hand remained in front of her face, but he felt her shaking with silent weeping. “Shh,” he soothed her, as he remembered his mother used to do. “It’ll work out. I promise.”

She didn’t reply.

“Amaranthe,” he said gently. “I’m going to find a place for you to rest, and I’m going to come back with your things.”

She shook her head. “There’s too much hidden in my room. You’d never find it.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “I’ll get it later. Just go.” She stepped away from him, walking down the hall and choosing an empty classroom at random. She disappeared inside.

He had to know what was in the sphere. Part of him knew it was wrong, seeing parts of Amaranthe’s life she hadn’t chosen to share with him, but what if Sicarius really did have a reason to keep it from her? What if it really was better that she go on without the assassin? He would watch what it showed him, and then he would choose his path. Sespian stepped into a classroom and sat against the wall. Taking the orb from his pocket, he held it so he could hear what was being said and learn what he did not know.

It was a scene that did not surprise him. Sicarius stood in a clearing, surrounded by dead bodies. A dazed and bruised Maldynado watched from the side. Amaranthe, however, was spewing curses at the assassin with no consideration for how the ruthless man would react. The display of anger he had seen that afternoon was that of a mewling kitten compared to this Amaranthe.

_No, curse your ancestors, I was never—damn it, you can’t try to save the emperor on one hand and kill his civil servants on the other. It doesn’t work that way, you—”_

He understood her anguish at the lost men, but still he marveled at her lack of fear of the assassin. Yet, Sicarius did not respond to her attack with anger. He was the picture of indifference.

Later, in a strange arena, next to a huge pit filled with cement, Sicarius sat, shirtless. Gashes raked his back, oozing blood. Amaranthe rummaged in cupboards, asking questions, as usual.

 _Why do you care about the emperor? What are you to him?_

_An enemy._

He had that right, Sespian thought. Amaranthe amended her question.

_What is the emperor to you?_

Sespian could almost see the gears turning in Amaranthe’s head. Though Sicarius answered none of her questions, she knew when she had guessed right.

_Sespian is your son._

Amaranthe paused for a long time. For once, she looked like she regretted being so nosey, but a resolve took over her features. She immediately saw the political implications, that Sespian would abdicate, but that would allow Sicarius and Sespian to have a relationship. Sicarius’s response was… accurate.

_I am likely the only person in the world he truly wants dead._

True. At least, that had been true. Sespian was not entirely sure anymore.

_He would not employ a killer, even to his benefit. I should have foreseen that._

_It is difficult to understand those least like ourselves._

_You understand me._

Amaranthe had finished stitching Sicarius’s wounds when a servant brought a note. _You killed my love_ , it read. _Before dawn, I shall burn your son alive._ In awe, Sespian watched his father’s rage—for all the violent acts he had ever known him to commit, Sespian had never seen Sicarius express an iota of emotion—and Amaranthe’s desperation to calm him down. Sicarius punched his fist through a wooden cabinet, and Sespian marveled that he had not hit Amaranthe. Sicarius’s face, ever unreadable, plainly showed his agony.

_This is your fault. All your questions. Why couldn’t you leave me alone? Everything would be fine now. But you had to pry. And, fool that I am, I let you. Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?_

Sespian saw the blank shock on Amaranthe’s face, the tears beginning to spill from her eyes. Sicarius had left and did not hear what she said next, but Sespian did.

_Because I care._

How long ago had this been? A few moments later, he got his answer. The scene shifted, and Amaranthe was on the catwalk of the smelter where Sespian had nearly been burned to death a year before. He watched the scene, now from Amaranthe’s perspective, realizing that Sicarius had not been there to kill him. He had been there to save him, and he had.

Before he could decide what the truth of the so-called kidnapping meant to him, more scenes blurred past Sespian’s eyes. Amaranthe and Sicarius sat in the back of another lorry, cleaning their rifles. They discussed a plot to divert the city’s water supply into private control, reminding Sespian of trouble in the mountains the spring before. Amaranthe rattled off theories. Sespian wasn’t certain Sicarius was listening.

_You think Forge or whoever we’re dealing with has a man inside? Someone working at odds with Sespian’s interests? Someone who might be a threat to him if he doesn’t comply?_

Sespian regretted not recruiting her team earlier. Maybe they could have avoided this mess, at least the part where Forge and the Marblecrests forcibly took over the government. 

 _You’d like to be in there with him, wouldn’t you? Standing at his side? Glaring at, or killing, anyone who gives him trouble._

Finally, Sicarius spoke, so quietly Sespian almost missed it.

 _That was the plan._

And Sespian himself had personally thwarted it.

He watched battles with monsters Sespian had never imagined; shamans and practitioners; and the kraken in the lake. There were moments of peace, too: a night by a fire in a cabin in a storm, pre-dawn training sessions, and a twilight stroll through the Emperor’s Gardens.

Sespian cringed when he realized they were discussing the possibility of a romance. They sat, barely touching, on a bench in a secluded alcove. Amaranthe argued the men need not even know, and as far as Sespian could tell, Sicarius agreed. Sespian already knew why Sicarius pushed her away, though. Him.

 _If it’s about Sespian, I can understand you not wanting more obstacles between you two, but it would be my choice. Even if he does still have feelings, which is unlikely._

_Her_ choice. With a sinking feeling, he realized there was very little she wanted from him. Had ever wanted from him, in fact. The kiss they had shared? It had not been for him. Her choice was Sicarius, and she had decided that months ago. Hearing her say it so directly deflated the bubble of hope he had nurtured since Sicarius had disappeared from her memory.

Another scene, in an underground bunker, and Amaranthe and Sicarius were looking at a disassembled rifle.

 _I need more facts at some point. Or at least, your version of the truth._

_They were plotting against Sespian._

_What? Who?_

Pretty much everyone Sicarius had killed in the last six years, it turned out. Of course, he had documented nothing. Sicarius had never operated in the light of day, and answering to the law was not how he was trained.

_All along you were acting on his behalf? Trying to protect him?_

_The fact that he has no heirs has always made him a target. You know that._

_Yes, but I thought… I guess everyone thought you were just a rogue assassin available for hire by the highest bidder._

So too had Sespian.

He began to recognize scenes on train from which they’d “kidnapped” him. And then, he saw snatches of scenes he wished he could scrub from his mind. Amaranthe lay naked on a metal table, held in place by posts through her wrists, thighs, and shoulders. She was pale, and her face was drawn in pain. He wondered how long she had been there, how much blood she had lost, what else the white-haired man had done to her. Pike, the master interrogator.

_Why the loyalty to Sicarius?_

Pike drew his knife across her abdomen, just above her hipbone. She gasped.

_Why the loyalty?_

_He’s saved my life. Many times._

_Ah, so it’s a soldiers’ bond. That makes more sense, thought it’s still surprising. He always worked solo. You’ve never screwed him, then?”_

Sespian drew a sharp intake of breath at Pike’s bluntness.

_No, have you?_

Pike said nothing, but smiled in a cold way that more than answered her question. Sespian’s horror grew as Pike continued.   

_Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest insisted that his pupil endure every likely torture he might expect to suffer should he be captured by enemy troops. He had to learn not to give any information away. Hollowcrest didn’t even want him to flinch. We began by making him hold burning brands when he was six or seven and, as he grew adept at handling that pain progressed to more advanced techniques._

Sespian clearly perceived, in her closed eyes and tightly clenched fists, Amaranthe’s impotent rage. He had never really considered how Sicarius had come to be the way he was, assuming he was born that way, not made: that Hollowcrest and Pike has molded a willing subject into the perfect assassin. His stomach roiled with guilt that he could have been so naïve. He wanted to throw the sphere across the room, closing his mind to the history he could no longer ignore. But he kept watching.

Pike kept boasting.

_I can take you to the brink of death again and again. And again._

_As you did with Sicarius?_

_As we did. You’re fortunate, though. He had to be tempered for the life he would lead, so there was no chance of an early reprieve. You, on the other hand, need only tell me one thing. Why is he protecting the emperor?_

_I don’t know._

And Pike dug his knife deeper into Amaranthe’s belly.

There were more days on the table, more than Sespian wanted to count. When a girl—with a start, he recognized her as the practitioner’s assistant—finally pried Sicarius’s secret from Amaranthe’s mind, Sespian was relieved, even though he knew the consequences of that secret being revealed. He watched Amaranthe drag her torn and bleeding body out of her interrogation chamber and through an alligator-infested swamp, all the while fighting off soldiers. Sicarius appeared, as if from nowhere, and he killed Pike. And Sespian was glad.

He saw one more scene. Amaranthe and Sicarius sat next to each other in a cave. A fire lit their faces. Sicarius held Amaranthe in his arms, gently stroking the curve of her cheek. The look of tenderness in his father’s eyes made him seem a different man. This was the man Amaranthe had seen, the man she had tried to show him.

Amaranthe was battered and exhausted, and eventually her eyelids drooped. Sicarius spoke once more, his voice barely audible.

_Amaranthe?_

_Yes?_

_I must speak to you of one more matter._

_Oh?_

_It is in regard to Sespian. And you._

Amaranthe’s sleepiness dissolved and she sat up, incensed.

_Let’s be clear on the situation here. He’s a sweet kid, but nothing would have happened between us even if you weren’t around._

Though he had heard this, and variations on it, several times already, the words stung.

_I love you, Sicarius. You’re stuck with me._

_I had already decided that while I was coming to find you._

_That… you’re stuck with me?_

_That I was unwilling to let someone else have you._

A sick feeling twisted Sespian’s stomach. He had no right to watch this. He had intruded on the lives of two people he now realized he barely understood and eavesdropped on a moment of intimacy surpassing mere physicality. Sespian dropped the sphere into his lap and stared at the ground. He wondered how much time had passed. It was fully dark outside, so it had been at least two hours. It could have been twelve.

What in the name of the ancestors was Sicarius doing now, then? Sicarius wanted Amaranthe. Whether he loved her—whether he _could_ love, after the torture that had been his childhood—was immaterial: Sicarius had chosen Amaranthe, and in his way, he cared for her.

Sespian thought back on the last few weeks. Since discovering Sicarius was his father, he had distanced himself from the assassin as much as possible. He had resisted Amaranthe’s attempts to tell him the truth of what had happened. He had spurned Sicarius’s attempts to help him. Was it really so surprising, then, that when Sicarius had been given the chance to make his son happy, that he had taken it? That Sicarius had done the emotional arithmetic and concluded that Amaranthe would not be hurt, because she would not know, and that if the only pain was his own, it was a price worth paying?   

But it was still wrong. Sicarius was wrong to take that from Amaranthe, and Sespian was wrong to accept it.

He had realized several things, staring into that sphere. For one thing, his father lived to protect him. Nothing—not his own happiness, nor the common bounds of humanity—would deter him from this mission. Second, beside him, his father cared for exactly one other person in the world: Amaranthe. And finally, what Sespian felt for Amaranthe, however strong it seemed to him, was a mere infatuation next to what she so obviously felt for Sicarius. She had faced torture at the hand of a true monster for Sicarius, and though she was brutalized within an inch of her life, she had not willingly given up his secret. For her to be so devoted and so loyal to this cold, inaccessible man had boggled Sespian’s mind, but he was beginning to see just how much he didn’t know about his father.  

He picked up the sphere and left the room. His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. After checking a few classrooms, he discovered Amaranthe sleeping on the floor of one. She was curled in a corner, hands clasped in front of her breast as if trying to hold her heart together. She had slipped her arms out of the sleeves of her coat for extra warmth, but she still looked cold. Sespian crept up to her, careful not to wake her. He slipped the sphere into her hand, pressing it against her chest. To his amazement, it started to glow so brightly the entire room was illuminated. Tendrils of light flowed from the sphere into Amaranthe’s body, and her skin—what he could see of it—radiated light. As the light faded, she sighed and smiled, but did not open her eyes.

Sespian stood. He would warm quickly on his run back to the hideout, and he would not need his winter coat. He pulled it off and spread it over her, tucking it in around her as well as he could with the limited amount of fabric. Shivering, he tiptoed out of the classroom and jogged away. 


	8. Chapter 8

Amaranthe woke at the soft close of a door. Footsteps echoed in an empty hallway as whoever it was walked away. Groggily, she pushed herself into a seated position. Her head spun with the disorientation produced by hours-long late-afternoon naps, and it was a few minutes before she remembered where she was.

It was a classroom in the school where she planned to make their next hideout. Sespian’s outer coat slid to the floor as she stood. He had been with her. She thought he would had left long ago, though it was hard to tell how many hours had passed since darkness fell. She pulled her own coat back on and slung his over her arm. Easing the door of the classroom open, she scanned the hallway for a sign of the visitor. Movement at the end of the hall caught her eye. Someone was going downstairs. Silently, she followed.

One floor down, she saw a light seeping from under the door of what she remembered to be the gymnasium. She crept close, standing against the wall just to the side of the door. Quiet voices conversed on the other side.

“Was she still asleep?” Starcrest asked.

“Yes,” Sespian replied. “Should we worry? It’s past midnight.”

She had slept that long? No wonder she was disoriented. Though, there was something else that confused her. The past few days were crystal-clear in her memory, but some crucial aspect had been missing, and she couldn’t quite remember what it was or why it was gone.

“I don’t think so. She had a long day.”

She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, reaching for memory. They had fought a practitioner who had nearly strangled her to death. And it was not any old practitioner, it was _the_ practitioner, the one she had bought the cylinder from. No, that wasn’t quite right, either: it wasn’t just a cylinder, it prevented tracking of alien artifacts, and she had traded for it, not bought it. What had she traded?

And with this question, the floodgates of her memory opened. Sicarius. She had traded a memory, and the practitioner had ripped Sicarius from her mind. Amaranthe sank to the floor, staring blindly in front of her. Her heart pounded in her ears and she felt ill. Putting her head between her knees, she forced herself to breath slowly and evenly.  

Eventually, the dizziness passed. Little mysteries of the last two days began to make sense. Why the assassin always seemed to be there, just in time. Sicarius had helped them in the Barracks, because he had lurked just out of sight and waited until he was needed. Her stomach clenched as she wondered just how much of that night he’d seen. Had he seen her kiss Sespian? How could she have _done_ that?

And today—well, yesterday, really—he had fought the practitioner with her. The day before, in that curious cavern under the pawnshop, he had been there. She wondered how he had known that an alarm had been triggered. Had he been so careless to trigger it? She almost chuckled at the idea of Sicarius being reckless.

She remembered, too, the aching sense of loss she had felt, without being aware what had caused it. It was no small amount of relief that she finally understood why. Her relief was tempered by anger that he had been ready to leave her. Was his declaration of… well, not love, but… appreciation worth so little?

No one else had been affected. Her men still remembered Sicarius, but when he disappeared, they had not cared. They had gone on as usual, neglecting to mention that a _teammate_ was gone. Probably, they had not wished to upset her, but cursed ancestors, she was upset. Every one of them owed Sicarius their lives, ten times over. Did he mean nothing to them?

Amaranthe stood and pushed the door open. Six anxious faces greeted her. Sicarius was not among them.

She pressed her lips together. As much as she wanted to scream at them, they looked terribly worried about her.  And screaming would hurt. A lot. “Why the gymnasium?” she asked, keeping her voice light. Deceptively light.

“Wrestling mats,” said Maldynado, wriggling his eyebrows.

“Not, I assume, for actual wrestling.” Sicarius would not approve of softening _anything_ for training purposes, and she would find him in time for pre-dawn training. 

“No windows to the outside,” Sespian corrected, rolling his eyes at Maldynado. “So no one can see Akstyr’s light.”

She nodded and turned to the teenager. He, too, bore responsibility, but she could save her wrath until she was assured he had come through his encounter with the practitioner unharmed. “Akstyr, are you all right? You were still unconscious when I left.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I’m supposed to check your neck. Starcrest said you were strangled. Sorry ‘bout that. I tried to help, but that practitioner lady was good.”

“You did your best.” She gave him what she hoped looked like a forgiving smile.

Akstyr shrugged, avoiding her eyes, as usual. He stood, gesturing for her to take his spot on a pile of mats. “It’ll just take a second.”

It was more like ten seconds, actually, but he pronounced her well. “I relieved some swelling,” he said. “You should feel better now.”

“Thank you, Akstyr,” she said, pleased to find talking no longer painful. She hugged him briefly, causing him to stiffen in embarrassment.

“Uh, it was nothing,” he muttered. “Glad you’re all right, Am’ranthe.”

She looked around the room. Starcrest and Tikaya conversed quietly, Tikaya’s head resting in Starcrest’s lap. Sespian stood a few feet away from them, hands clasped behind his back in a pose that evoked his father. For all his bluster, Maldynado sat alone on his mat, adjacent to Books’s mat. Books had looked up from his papers when she walked in, but his attention was now entirely on the new constitution. She stood, relinquishing Akstyr’s mat.

“Guess I’d better find my own mat,” she said. “And I have a few questions for you.” The tension in the room thickened like Solstice-day pudding. Her men, including Books, watched her, unmoving. She would start with an easy question. “Where’s Retta?”

“We didn’t want her to learn the location of our new hideout, so we left her at the factory,” Sespian answered. “Basilard is guarding her now.”

“Good. That answers my second question, too, then,” Amaranthe said agreeably. “Just one more.” She smiled, setting the sweetest expression she could manage on her face. “Did you all collectively fail to notice the gaping hole in my memory where Sicarius used to be? Or is there another explanation for why you let me believe everything has been _normal_ for the past three days?”

“No,” said Sespian softly, staring at the floor. “We noticed.”

“I see.” Amaranthe pursed her lips and dropped her saccharine tone. “I am only going to say this once.” She looked at Maldynado, Books, Akstyr, and, finally, Sespian. “Sicarius is part of this team. And when a member of this team is separated from us—by magical means or otherwise—we go after him. Do you understand?”

“Amaranthe, he wanted to leave,” argued Books. “He thought it would be best for Sespian and the empire. And you. He has a point.”

“So you think we should just write him off as a sacrifice to our cause? Allow him to save our lives when it’s useful, but as soon as it’s inconvenient for him to be around, to let him go?” Amaranthe turned the full force of her glare on Books. “Until Raumesys died, he _had_ no choices. And after, everything he’s done— _everything_ —has been for his son. His entire life has been a sacrifice.” She took a breath, glancing at Sespian. Instead of staring at the ground or into space, he met her eyes, nodding once. Interesting, she thought. Amaranthe returned her attention to Books. “With us, he’s finally seeing that there’s an alternative to killing your enemies. If we succeed—and that’s a big if, with most of the team ready to jettison him at their earliest opportunity—the empire will be a different place. A place where he won’t feel he hasto kill to keep his son alive. Of all of us, Books, I would have thought you’d understand how he feels.”

Books nodded, stunned. “I – I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it that way.”

Amaranthe looked at each of her other men in turn, challenging them to argue. None of them did.

In the awkward silence that followed, Starcrest cleared his throat. Amaranthe had almost forgotten that he and Tikaya were with them.

“I’m sorry that you should witness this lack of team unity,” she apologized. How embarrassing that the former Admiral of the entire navy should see her inability to command loyalty from six men.

“The circumstances are highly unusual,” Starcrest said, waving her off. “And Sicarius does believe you would have a higher probability of… success without him at your side, a notion I have been trying to dissuade him from since we arrived.”

“Oh!” Realization dawned on her. “Sicarius wrote you a letter a month ago, didn’t he? He wouldn’t tell me who it was for.”

“Yes,” confirmed Starcrest. “He suggested there was a place for my strategic capabilities to shape a new Turgonia. I was curious just how he had come to that position. The last time I saw him he was at Raumesys’s beck and call. Having met you, I begin to understand.”

Amaranthe snorted at this: some leader she had been. “Well, then we’d better get him back here,” she said. “Where is he?”

“He’s bringing officers their memories from the practitioner’s shop,” Starcrest explained. “Yours wasn’t the only one she took.” He glanced at a pocket watch. “Actually, Sespian, it’s time that we go back to help. Sicarius should be at the meeting spot now.” Gently, he lifted Tikaya off his lap, preparing to stand up.

Sespian nodded. Remembering she held his coat still, Amaranthe walked over and handed it to him. “Admiral, I’ve slept nearly a full night’s worth. I’ll go with Sespian.”

Starcrest sat back on the mat. “Thank you, Amaranthe,” Tikaya said, trying and failing to suppress a yawn. She settled back onto Starcrest’s lap, her eyes closing almost instantly. Starcrest tucked an errant strand of Tikaya’s hair behind her ear, and not a little envy tugged at Amaranthe’s breast. Sicarius was unlikely to ever show his affection so openly. Starcrest caught her watching them and she blushed.

“Don’t be discouraged,” he said softly, reading her expression. “The man’s already changed in ways I didn’t dare hope for twenty years ago. He’ll come around.”

Something about how he said it made her doubt that he meant in the sweet brushing-her-hair-out-of-her-face sense. “Come around?” she echoed, suspicious.

Starcrest and Sespian exchanged an uneasy glance.

“It’s best that you talk to him,” Sespian said. “He’s upset about the practitioner, and he’s ready to leave Turgonia once he’s done collecting the soldiers.”

This is strange, she thought, for Sespian to acknowledge Sicarius having feelings. She wondered what had happened between them in the past few days. “When does he plan to leave?” she asked guardedly.

Sespian would not look at her. “Soon,” he answered.

He was keeping something from her.

Her insides twisted in knots. Surely, it wasn’t as bad as she feared. She must have some time. A week. A few days. Tomorrow, at least. “When, Sespian?” she demanded, gripping his arm.

He swallowed. “Tonight,” he said. “As soon as he’s delivered the memories.”

Amaranthe spun on her heel and ran out of the gymnasium. She had to stop him, and fast. Distantly, she heard Sespian follow.

*~*~*~*

Rather than going through the trouble of infiltrating the barracks, Sicarius lurked in a copse of trees just above the lake path and waited for a patrol of soldiers to come to him. The moon, very nearly full, illuminated the woods. Blue and white light reflected off the snow and Sicarius could see as easily as if it were high noon. To remain undetected in such bright light, total motionlessness was required, something an assassin understood well.

With the help of Broveanu and Pokov, they had identified the patrols that would be out that evening and the officers who would command them. Sicarius carried the memory-spheres in his pack, each wrapped in black cloth and carefully labeled with the man’s name and rank. He did not know what would happen if a sphere broke, but he assumed it would result in the loss of the memory. Probably, he should have simply broken Amaranthe’s sphere, but a small part of him had railed against irrevocably casting her from his life.

The plan was simple. Sespian and Starcrest would arrive soon. Sicarius would subdue the identified officer, return his memory, and bring him to Sespian in the woods for Sespian to give the officer the spheres for his subordinates, both the ones on the patrol and back in the barracks. Sespian would then command the officer to return to his squad with a plausible explanation for disappearing into the woods—biological needs, for instance—and then they would wait for the next patrol. Starcrest would be on hand in case any hiccups required a change of plans. It couldn’t hurt to have a legendary hero, either. There would be two patrols per hour until dawn, nearly eight hours away. Sicarius could not carry a thousand orbs in his rucksack, so he would have to return to the practitioner’s shop between patrols to collect the next batch of memory spheres.

Footsteps crunched on the path. They were too light for soldiers, but the figure lacked Sespian’s height. A moment later, he recognized the short, muscular man. Basilard. This was not according to plan.

Sicarius emerged from the trees and met him on the path. When Basilard saw him, Sicarius leapt back into the wood, careful not to leave telltale footprints in the snow. A minute later, Basilard had joined him. Sicarius stood, arms crossed, waiting for Basilard to explain.

 _Retta’s gone._ Basilard shut his eyes, but Sicarius had already seen the shame there. _She used some sort of knockout gas, and when I woke…_

Sicarius cut him off with a dismissive shake of his head. _It doesn’t matter. How long ago?_

_An hour. Maybe less. I ran here as soon as I woke._

Sicarius calculated how long it would take Retta to raise the alarm at Fort Urgot. Much less than an hour for her to get there, if she had caught one of the last late-night trolleys. He had left the remaining spheres at the practitioner’s shop, believing it as safe a place as any. If he didn’t collect them before the military arrived, their hopes of garnering any loyal troops for Sespian would be dashed. 

_You know the plan. Wait for the patrol, if it comes. The ranking officer should be a man named Sharpcrest. I am going to secure the remaining memory spheres. Sespian and Starcrest should arrive shortly._

_Understood,_ Basilard signed. _I am sorry for my mistake._

 _Don’t be._ Sicarius removed his rucksack and handed it to Basilard. _Only focus on this now._ With that, he darted into the woods, running the straightest path back to the practitioner’s shop.

It was as deserted as when he had left it two hours ago. After carefully separating the orbs into ten bags based on regiment, he had left nine of them in the orb room with the door closed. He eased behind the counter. In the best case, only the practitioner had known what the dial controlling the underground gate did, and triggering it would protect the spheres while the soldiers searched the shop. Worst case… soldiers knew how to operate the gate, and he would have to defend the spheres. He spun the dial to _open_ and slipped through the trapdoor, pulling it shut behind him. As he skimmed down the ladder, he listened for any sound indicating another’s presence. He was alone.

Sicarius jogged to the door to the orb room. Finding the panel hidden in the wall, he popped it off. He was reaching for the crank when the trapdoor swung open, sending a shaft of light to the floor. He would not have time to open the door to the orb room, unless he could nullify this intruder before the soldiers arrived. Sicarius crept toward the ladder, careful to stay behind one of the many pillars as he approached.

Retta, the woman responsible both for saving Amaranthe’s life and revealing his secret, appeared at the top of the ladder. In the split second that he hesitated, wondering what Amaranthe would do, he missed his opportunity to throw a knife at her, because in that moment, she dropped a small black object to the ground in front of her.

As the second stone dropped, Sicarius recognized them. In a flash, he pulled a throwing knife and deflected the third on its descent. It bounced to the ground, falling several meters behind its intended location.

“Why, thank you,” Retta said, tossing the fourth stone. “You just increased the size of our protected area down here.”

Sicarius said nothing. These same stones had erected a fifteen-foot wall around Pike in his last stand against Sicarius. The difference then had been that it was possible to leap over the top of the protective barrier. The ceiling of the underground chamber, while high, was not high enough for him to vault over it.

“You should know that even if you kill me, all of them can operate the gate,” she gloated. “And they’re coming.”

*~*~*~*

Amaranthe and Sespian ran north on the lake path, their pace too fast for conversation. Sespian’s breathing was not a silent as Sicarius’s would have been, but his tread was nearly as light.

“We should take to the wood here,” puffed Sespian. “He will be waiting just ahead.”

Amaranthe nodded and bounded off the trail, landing ten feet into the woods. Sespian landed to her right, and a good two feet in front of her. Someday, she would care less that any one of the men could best her physically. Not quite yet.

She followed Sespian through the woods, stepping in his footprints to take advantage of the already-packed snow. He halted suddenly at the edge of a small clearing. Amaranthe jumped to the side to avoid running into his back, nearly toppling in the deep snow. Over-casually, she grabbed the branch of a snow-laden tree to regain her balance. It would have been convincing, too, had the branch not chosen that particular moment to unload its burden on her head. Snow invaded her parka, trickling down her neck and sliding up her sleeve.

Basilard waited alone in the clearing, Sicarius’s rucksack at his feet. “Where’s Sicarius?” she asked, trying to shake the snow out of her coat. Had Sicarius already left? Was she too late? She could not believe that he would leave in the middle of a mission. He still had a tie to Sespian, whatever he believed of her.

 _At the practitioner’s shop. Retta escaped. He’s gone to secure the memory spheres,_ Basilard signed.

“No,” whispered Sespian, his eyes unfocused. “He doesn’t know…”

“What?” Amaranthe hissed, grabbing his arm. “What doesn’t he know?”

Sespian turned to face Amaranthe. “In the ducts last night, I heard Ravido talking to his man. They took a particular interest in your memory sphere. They knew it was taken. ‘Spare no resources to find it,’ Ravido said. If they know the practitioner’s dead, and that we are responsible for it, it won’t take them long to figure out what we’re doing.”

“Well, then, it’s particularly important that _these_ memories get delivered,” Amaranthe said. She released his arm.

“But what about Sicarius? They could send an entire regiment against him, and he’ll be cornered in that cellar,” Sespian argued.

It hadn’t been her imagination. Something had changed between the two of them in the past two days. Now wasn’t the time to rejoice, but she was grateful something had come of the ordeal. “That’s why I’m going to help him,” she said. In the distance, she could hear the soft trample of a dozen pairs of soldiers’ boots. “Get the spheres to this officer and then come find us.”

 _Understood_ , Basilard signed. _Good luck._

Amaranthe nodded and ran into the woods.

*~*~*~*

After Retta laid the protective stones, she disappeared into the shop above. As of yet, she was still the only one: no other footsteps joined hers.

Sicarius approached the barrier warily. Finding a pebble on the dirt floor, he tossed it into the wall. It disappeared with a burst of flame. It was the same barrier he had encountered in the swamp: nothing could pass between the stones without incurring instant conflagration.

In the swamp, however, he had not had the opportunity to approach the stones so closely from the outside. Pike had been inside their boundary, shooting at him with a repeating firearm. From Pike’s location, he knew they posed no danger: after he had killed Pike, he had simply walked back through the boundary. He knelt by one of the stones. It was made of the same black substance as most of the other artifacts of the alien technology. He pulled out a throwing knife and poked at a stone. Before the blade touched the stone, however, it glowed red, then white, with heat. He retracted the knife, dropping it to the ground before the heat was conducted to the handle. An ordinary knife would do nothing against these stones.

But now he had more than just an ordinary knife. He reached for his black dagger, considering his next move carefully. It had been useful over the years, and if he was wrong about this, he was sacrificing a great weapon. On the other hand, he had few other options, and if he was right, he just might find a way out. He edged the knife toward the stone.

Nothing happened. Whatever the knife was made of, the material was inert in the stone’s force field. He still could not cross the barrier, but he could move it. If he moved it in front of the gate, he would deny the soldiers access to the orb room, regardless of how they set the switch, _and_ he would remove the protective barrier they believed they would have. He could slip out and enter the orb room from the neighboring shop while they puzzled over how to move the wall of flame.

Sicarius slid his blade under the first of the stones then backed toward the orb room. He deposited it just to the right of the gate, flush with the wall. He returned for the second stone, careful not to cross the straight-line path between them. This one he placed in line with the center of the gate, but a couple of meters away from it. He was retrieving the third stone when he heard the thunder of soldiers’ boots above.  

They had arrived. Until they discovered that the barrier had been moved, they would only send a few soldiers below at once, but with the dozens of soldiers above, he could not escape unnoticed. He could fight them off, a handful at a time, if he used the corner of the room to protect his back, but how many would die that way? How many who had been loyal to Sespian?

He was laying the third stone next to the second when he realized another option. He had intended to put the stones in a trapezoidal configuration, preventing anyone in the pillar room from approaching the door to the orb room. Instead of a trapezoid, however, he could put the stones in a V-shaped pattern, with the top of the V flush with the wall. This would create a triangular safety zone for him, with the closed door forming the third edge of the triangle. He would not be inside the _stone_ ’s protection, but their missiles could not penetrate it, either. Once he had the wall in place, he could open the gate, access the orb room, and trigger the closing mechanism. While the soldiers figured out how to get past the double barrier of flame wall and stone door, he could cut through the dome and escape through the shop above.

Time was running out. Sicarius gathered the fourth stone, squeezed around the third stone, and set the final stone in front of the gate, close to the second stone. He then used his knife to push the third stone against the wall on the other side of the wheel, sealing himself between the closed gate and wall of protection. He kicked some dirt at the magical wall and was satisfied to see it vaporized in a spot of flame.

He turned to open the door, gripping the wheel with both hands. He cranked on it. It didn’t budge. He tried again, then in the opposite direction. With a sinking feeling, he realized that Retta had turned the dial from _open_ to _armed_ as soon as she had realized he was down there.

*~*~*~*

Amaranthe’s lungs burned with dry, frigid air as she raced to the practitioner’s store. Her legs ached with exhaustion, so she focused on pumping her arms, trusting her feet would follow. She screeched to a halt as she reached the final turn to the store. She was around the corner from the pawnshop, only one or two doors down from it. Her back against a brick wall, she whipped her head around the building.

The street was crowded with soldiers, row after row of uniformed men standing at attention. She counted them: eight to a row, and there were at least ten rows between her and the store. Her target. On the far side of the store, another squadron waited, mirroring the first. She pulled her head back behind the wall before any of the soldiers facing her direction noticed her.

She was vulnerable on ground level, she decided. She had turned to scale the wall to the rooftop when she heard the crunch of boots on snow above her. She flattened herself against the wall, hoping the eave hung out far enough to conceal her.

The steps advanced toward her, paused, and then moved along the roof, toward the crowded street. She had to find cover.

Sliding soundlessly against the wall, Amaranthe stepped back from the corner. Ten feet down the wall was a door. Cautiously, she tried the handle. It was locked, of course, but thanks to Sicarius’s training, that was no problem. In moments, Amaranthe had stolen inside the empty store.

Closing the door behind her, she waited in shadows, straining to detect the faintest sound. Satisfied she was alone, Amaranthe proceeded further into the store. From inside, she saw the backward lettering on the window advertising the services of a launderer. She grinned. Given the explosive qualities of cleaning solutions, it was awfully convenient, though attracting the attention of the soldiers was not precisely what she wished to do at the moment.

With a jolt, she remembered something else. This store abutted the pawnshop _on the side of the pillar room_. There may be a way into the memory-sphere room from here, as well. On her knees, Amaranthe searched the front room for any cracks in the floor. Her gloves were soon coated in a thick layer of grime. Perhaps she could use some detergent while she was here.

But no trapdoor hid under the dirt, either in the front room or behind the counter. Another locked door behind the counter slowed Amaranthe for but a minute. Anyone on the other side had probably heard her lock pick, so she did not hesitate before pushing it open.

The room beyond was unlike any she had ever seen. Instead of a floor, the top of a glass dome filled the room. Blue light filtered through it, casting an unnatural glow on the otherwise empty room. She peered into the room below. Cases of bare shelves circled a pool filled with black liquid. A blue orb floated over the pool, the only apparent source of light. Next to the shelves, bulging sacks were arranged in neat rows. Those must be the memory spheres. Sicarius had them ready for distribution. But where was Sicarius?

She would have to get into the room below, but she estimated the drop, even to the top of one of the shelves, was over ten feet. She needed rope. Or… This _was_ a drycleaners. Perhaps they did ordinary laundry as well? Ordinary sheets? Amaranthe left the dome room. The front room of the store had only a few garments hung in wait for their owners to claim them, but in the back, a huge metal bin overflowed with white clothing of some sort. At least, it would have been white, if it had been clean. Amaranthe’s nose confirmed that it had not been laundered in quite some time.

Not the time to be picky, she reminded herself as she delved into the heap of smelly laundry. Her search was fruitful, producing several dubiously colored bedsheets, which she knotted securely together. After this, she would need a bath. A very _long_ bath.

Dragging her bed-sheet rope back to the dome room, she considered how to penetrate the glass. Explosives would make too much noise and draw attention, but perhaps she could cut through it with a knife as she had once seen Sicarius do. With her dagger, she traced a circular opening large enough for her to squeeze through near the edge. Using the palm of her hand, she struck it. Nothing happened.

Perhaps Sicarius’s knife was that much sharper. Or he had used more force. Or this glass was too thick. She traced the circle several more times, etching a deeper ridge in the glass. She thought she could see strain lines spreading from her scratches. Once more, she hit the glass. Instead of popping out in a neat circle, as Sicarius’s had done, it shattered, a rain of glass shards falling to the floor. Luckily, her glove had protected her hand. Not wishing to drive the splinters of glass embedded in her glove into her hand, she removed the compromised glove and tossed it to the side. After she secured the bed sheets to the door, she dropped the rope through the hole and shimmied down it.

*~*~*~*

Sicarius knelt behind his protective wall, facing the stone door. There may yet be a way out. He did have his knife. He prodded the door with the black knife, finding only faint resistance to the blade. Sicarius cut a cone-shaped chunk and eased it out of the door. The blade was not long enough to penetrate the wall in one cut, so he enlarged his divot and plunged the knife in again.

Two soldiers descended the ladder, bearing repeating firearms. They landed in a crouch, searching for Sicarius in the shadows of the room. Sicarius stopped hacking at the stone door and turned to block his progress from the soldier’s view. He sat completely still. They would see movement before they saw him.

“Where is he?” one of the soldiers whispered.

“I don’t know,” the other replied. “She said we’re protected here. Let’s just try shooting.” He fired his weapon into the room, rapidly discharging eight rounds. Sicarius heard bullets lodging in the walls and pillars. Chunks of brick and stone tumbled to the floor.

“How do we know if we hit him?” the first soldier asked. His voice rose above the report of the weapons.

“He’ll yell?”

His reputation among the soldiers had lost some of its luster in the last year, apparently.

“I don’t hear him at all,” the first soldier said. He snapped a new cartridge into his gun and resumed firing. 

A lucky shot passed from the trapdoor to Sicarius without being intercepted by any of the intervening rows of pillars. It disappeared in a flash of fire, a foot in front of Sicarius’s chest.

“Did you see that?” The soldier shot again, with the same result. “Emperor’s balls, where’s that wall?”

“Retreat! Retreat!” his partner screamed, leading the way up the ladder.

Sicarius heard only the panicked tone of the soldiers’ voices as they reported to their commanding officer. A minute later, Retta was descending the ladder, a soldier’s boot on her shoulder. On the floor, Retta dropped to her knees, searching for her protective stones.

“They’re gone,” she yelled up to the soldiers. “Please, let me come back up.”

“Find out where the bloody assassin put them,” a man, presumably the officer, shouted back at her.

“But—”

A rifle fired. Sicarius assumed it was a warning shot, because Retta did not fall. She scurried away from the ladder. He could see her in silhouette, her posture reminding him of a mouse dropped into the cage of a snake in Raumesys’s old menagerie. Little did she know that here the snake was on the other side of the glass.

“Move!” the officer commanded again. “Corporal Revak, get down there. Make sure she goes.”

The corporal descended the ladder, quickly seeing Retta crouching by a pillar. He aimed his gun at her. “You heard the captain, woman. Get moving.”

Sicarius watched her as she darted from pillar to pillar. She seemed to adjust to the darkness somewhat, because eventually she stopped crashing into the pillars. Several minutes later, she stood a couple yards away from him, on the opposite side of a pillar in the last row. Her pillar just barely brushed against the outer edge of his V-shaped wall, but the wall would, of course, be invisible to her.

“Sicarius?” Her voice cracked with fear. “Please don’t kill me,” she whispered, as if talking to herself.

How much easier this night would have gone if he had killed her that afternoon.

Retta edged around the pillar, stopping mere inches from the incinerating boundary. He could say nothing, and let her burn. She had done as much damage as she could, though, and her position with the army had probably not been buttressed by the events of the night. What if he tried to talk her into helping him, as Amaranthe would?

“Don’t move,” Sicarius warned her. Predictably, she jumped. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. “Open this door, and I won’t kill you.”

“I can’t,” she whimpered. “He’ll kill me.”

Sicarius sighed. His irritation stemmed not so much from her lack of training in combat, as from her cowardice. He was so used to Amaranthe’s foolhardy bravery. “I will help you escape,” he said.

She poked her head around the pillar. “How can I trust _you_? An assassin?” She saw him finally and cocked her head. “Wait a minute. I don’t understand… what did you do–” She jumped away from the pillar, understanding suddenly that the wall had only been moved.

She had not, however, noticed where. Her arm burst into flame. She screamed and fell to the ground, frantically rolling to extinguish the fire. It was no ordinary fire, though, and her efforts only accelerated its spread. Sicarius was unable to do a thing about it.

The corporal yelled to his captain. “He’s here! He moved the wall, but he’s not shooting anything! Send more men!”

Deciding in favor of a battle of attrition, the captain ordered a flood of soldiers down the ladder.

“Whatever you do, don’t get closer than she did,” the corporal advised the other soldiers as they joined him. He gestured at Retta’s charred remains. “He’ll have to come out sometime, and we’ll be ready.”

“What about the ceiling? Didn’t she say the walls are only fifteen feet high?” a soldier asked.

“Good point,” the corporal nodded. Temporarily stemming the stream of descending soldiers, he climbed up the ladder.

Ten minutes later, Sicarius heard the scratch of tools over his head. If he didn’t cut through this door soon, he would have a choice: be shot like a fish in a barrel, or face the hundred and more soldiers now filling the pillar room.

He sincerely hoped that _someone_ from his team had retrieved the memory spheres.

*~*~*~*

On the floor of the orb room, Amaranthe counted nine sacks. None of them were particularly heavy, but they were bulky. She could probably carry three at once, maybe four, but to get them all out, she would need Basilard and Sespian. And Sicarius. Where was he? Had he made it to the shop, or did he wait somewhere outside?

Amaranthe explored the rest of the room. She peered into the black pool in the middle of the room. As far as she could tell in the dim light of the orb, there was no bottom. At the center of the orb, however, a small silver object shimmered. It was no larger than her thumbnail, and she wouldn’t have noticed it, except that it blazed twice as brightly as the substance around it. Interesting. She suspected that the blue matter was not particularly wholesome, but that this silver item was for some reason useful, though for what, she did not yet know.

She circled the perimeter of the room. At the far end from where her bed-sheet rope hung was a closed door. Presumably, this led to the pillar room. To the right of the door was a wheel. Unfortunately, the wheel was locked in place. Amaranthe squinted at it. It was difficult to see in the dim glow, but there appeared to be a keyhole at the center. Ah, so this was what the silver object did: it was a key, and with it, she could open the door. But she did not need to open the door. There were only soldiers on the other side. She hoped.

Amaranthe turned back to the sacks of memories. She might as well start moving them. If she had all of them out of here by the time the men showed up, so much the better.

Using the bottom sheet, it was possible to construct a hammock to hold five of the sacks at once. It might have held more, but it would already be difficult to pull them through the hole in the dome. Amaranthe secured five of the sacks, climbed up the sheets back into the launderer’s, and pulled the sacks up behind her. Two at a time, she placed them in a neat row behind the front counter.

A thud sounded at the side door. Amaranthe froze. She had not reset the lock it after she had picked it. The knob turned slowly. She glanced to the dome room, thinking she could hide in there, but she couldn’t leave these sacks unguarded. Pulling out her knife, she stood in a ready crouch.

A tall, fit man slipped past the door. Noiselessly, he stepped into the store.

“Sicarius!” Amaranthe exclaimed, before the man turned to face her.

A sad smile spread across Sespian’s face. Basilard stepped in behind him.

“Oh, oops,” she said. She hoped he couldn’t see her blush in the dim blue light. “Uh, I’m glad you’re here, too. I have the memory sacks ready to go. Just one more load.” She tossed an extra sheet toward them. “You can use this to make a bigger carrying bag.” Amaranthe dashed back to the hole in the dome, scuttling down before Sespian and Basilard said anything else.

A few minutes later, the remaining four bags of memories were secured in a makeshift sheet sack and strapped to Sespian’s back. Basilard carried the first five.

 _Did you hear the soldiers outside?_ Basilard signed, his face creased with worry. _They have Sicarius surrounded._

“Where? How? He’s not below. I assumed he didn’t make it back here before they…” Amaranthe’s voice trailed off as she realized where Sicarius was. “He’s in the pillar room, isn’t he? On the other side of that blasted door?”

Sespian nodded. “They said something about a wall of fire,” he said. “Apparently, they can’t penetrate it, but it’s only a matter of time before they break through the ceiling above him.”

“I know how to open the door. I’ll get him,” Amaranthe said. There had to be a way to get the key out of the blue stuff. Maybe if she just kept it from touching her skin…

“Amaranthe?”

“Sorry. Thinking.” She grinned. “You two get going. Sicarius would be angry if he went through all this and we didn’t get those memory spheres out of here.” Impulsively, she hugged Basilard, then Sespian. “Be careful,” she said, turning back to the dome room. She heard the shop door close softly, and then they were gone.

Amaranthe retrieved her discarded glove: as soon as she had the key, she would abandon it, but for now, it might give her the extra protection she would need. For the third time, she clamored down the rope.

When she had left the orb room, it had been completely silent. Now, however, she heard faint echoes of soldiers’ voices. The room was still empty, and she hadn’t heard the voices when she was above, in the shop. Amaranthe approached the stone door. It was still closed, solid in front of her. She leaned closer.

The tip of Sicarius’s knife jabbed through the stone, mere inches from her nose. Amaranthe jumped back. “Sicarius?” she whispered.

The knife completed its circle and a small hole opened.

“Amaranthe.” His voice was cool, as ever. “Have the memory-spheres been dealt with?”

Right. Business first. Of course there was no “I’ve missed you” or “so glad you’re here, care to get me out of here?” Then again, he didn’t know that she knew.

“They’re with Basilard and Sespian,” she answered his question first. “And, Sicarius… I didn’t forget you on purpose. I remember now.” She heard something fell on the other side of the wall. “Uh, Sicarius?”

“That was a piece of the ceiling. They’ve almost broken through. You need to go. Now.”

“No.”

“They’ll be able to get in there. They can open the door.”

“I’m not leaving without you,” she insisted. “I know where the key is. Just give me a minute.”

She ran to the key in the orb. Amaranthe poked a gloved finger at the orb. It wobbled under her touch, like gelatin. Applying more pressure, her hand slipped in. She felt it seep around her glove as she reached for the key. Probably it was better to do this quickly: less time to absorb whichever poison it was. She thrust her arm in, past her elbow, almost to her shoulder, and yet the key was out of her grasp. Amaranthe leaned over the pool, resting her hip on its edge and bracing her legs against the side. Her precarious position afforded her the last millimeter she needed to reach the key.

Emperor’s bloody ancestors, but the key was small. Amaranthe tried to enclose it in her gloved hand, only to feel it slide between her fingers. She tore her hand from the orb, ripped off the glove, and reached for the key again. As her fingers closed around it, the force levitating the orb disappeared. She pulled her hand from the orb, or tried to, but it was plummeting toward the black pool. Balanced on a razor’s edge already, she was not prepared for the sudden movement. With a loud splash, she tumbled over the edge of the pool.

As the orb disappeared into the inky blackness of the pool below, its light winked out. Amaranthe managed to hook her feet over the edge of the pool. She pulled against the downward force of the orb, but it seemed to have latched onto her hand. Her strength was not enough. Her foot slipped, and the orb dragged her deep into the pool.

Her _physical_ strength was not enough. This was a trap, laid by a practitioner. She couldn’t fight it physically. For the second time in a day, she pushed with her mind, seeking a crack in the practitioner’s power.

She spun around, so she went feet-first, not headfirst, never once relenting in her mental resistance. As she went deeper, the liquid—she hoped it was water—grew warmer. She found herself relaxing, not kicking as hard.

Just as the practitioner intended.

She couldn’t let go. If she let go, she wouldn’t be able to tell Sicarius how angry she was that he had been prepared to leave her. Or thank him for everything he’d done, despite his silly notion of walking away. He might die, on the other side of that cursed door, and it would be because of her. An image of him flashed into her mind. Expressionless, he watched her critically, judging her performance as he had in so many training sessions.

“You’re prepared for this,” his stern voice echoed in her ears.

She was. With a burst of renewed energy, she repelled the psychological bonds of the orb, finally feeling them give. She wrenched the key from the gooey grip of the orb, and her kicking pushed her upward. Her lungs screamed for air. “Your blood is well-oxygenated still,” Sicarius’s voice reminded her. “It is only your lungs signaling their discomfort. Kick harder.”

Amaranthe kicked harder. Had there been light, her vision would be gone, but as she was in complete blackness, brilliant bursts of light danced in front of her eyes. At last, her head broke the surface. Gulping air, she lunged over the edge and dragged herself onto solid ground.

Her skin tingled slightly at the cold, and she would soon be freezing, but otherwise, she felt fine. Better than fine, actually. She’d escaped the practitioner’s trap. Euphoria bubbled up inside of her, threatening to burst out in a fit of laughter. But first, Sicarius. She had to save Sicarius.

The faintest outline of the white sheets dangling from the ceiling behind her oriented her in the room. She ran to the wheel, but her hasty fingers fumbled the key in the lock and it fell to the ground. She patted the ground, desperately seeking the tiny key. It had landed just in front of her foot. Amaranthe took a deep breath.

“Slow down, girl,” she muttered to herself. Her hands were shaking with excitement. Moving very deliberately, she inserted the key in the lock and turned it. A latch clicked somewhere.

Amaranthe gripped the wheel with both hands and turned it. It rotated, ever so slowly, but the door was inching upward. “See? Told you,” she said.

“Told me what?” Sicarius asked dryly. At the sound of his voice, her heart skipped a beat. He was still alive. She could sing. Or dance. Or both.

Whoa, girl, she told herself, scale it back. Calmly, she replied, “That I would get you out of here.”

When the door had raised itself a foot, she heard his voice again. “Hold the wheel,” he commanded. She held it still, feeling curious whorls on its surface. The wheel felt so _intricate_. Maybe Sicarius could bring her a light. Then she could stay there and study it.

She sensed his presence by the whoosh of air as he rolled into the room. She turned toward where he should be, but it was so dark she could hardly see him. “Sicarius?” Forgetting the wheel, Amaranthe let go of it, and it spun, lowering the door. There was something she was supposed to tell Sicarius. Something important. Something she’d done that she shouldn’t have.

“I—I kissed Sespian!” she blurted.

“I know.” He was jogging away from her. Was he that angry about the kiss? She needed to explain that it hadn’t meant anything, that she’d only ever loved him. She followed him.

“Where are we going?” She ran her hands through her hair meaning to pull it back into a neater bun, but her hands came away coated in ooze. She rubbed her fingers together. “So… slimy,” she mumbled. The goo stretched between her fingers and she giggled. Sicarius stopped jogging. What had she been talking about? Oh, right, she had been explaining why she kissed Sespian. “I’m sorry. I didn’t remember who you were. She took you away from—”

“Can you climb?” He pulled the bedsheet rope toward her.

“Climb?” She took the lower sheet and tugged on it. “Why don’t we just stay here? The water’s so nice. We could just leave our clothes here and…” She waggled her eyebrows.

Sicarius removed her hands from the bottom bed sheet. He untied it. “May I carry you?”

Amaranthe had lost interest. She remembered how warm she had been in the pool. That was where she wanted to be, not out in the cold with the soldiers. “I’m going swimming,” she informed him, tugging off her parka.

Strong hands wrapped around her waist. “Amaranthe,” Sicarius said. “Focus.”

Focus? On the feel of his hands on her? Yes, she could do that. “Mmm,” she purred. “It’s about time.”

“Amaranthe,” he repeated sharply. “The water is affecting you. We need to leave. Now.”

She shook her head, trying to push away the fog. “Yes,” she whispered, fighting to get the words out before the haze returned. “Let’s go.”

*~*~*~*

Sicarius fashioned a sling for her out of the bed sheet he’d removed and climbed out of the orb room. He found an exit from the launderer’s through the back, emerging from the building in a dark alley a block and a half away from two hundred soldiers. With Amaranthe wrapped in a sheet in his arms, he ran through the streets of Stumps.

“Where are we going, Sicarius?” Her voice was girlish, with a singsong cadence. Whatever was in that pool, it had gone straight to her head.

“The hideout. Do you know where the new one is?” It seemed the best option, if she could remember. His perch in the opera house was insecure: the practitioner had known about it days ago. And he did not wish to return to the old hideout now that Retta had presumably notified the military of its location.

“Yes!” she answered.

“Where is it?”

“Erm…” Her face screwed up in concentration. “I don’t wanna go there. Let’s go somewhere else. Let’s go to a spa.”

He would have to take his chances with the old factory, then. At least, he might be able to find a change of clothes for her at the old factory, and assuming that her condition was caused by contact with the black liquid, removing her contaminated clothing had to be the priority. He had no idea how long it would take for the liquid to do permanent damage.

“Can’t we go swimming?” she pleaded. “I don’t know why we left. We had our own private bath. We could have…” Her words trailed off, but her wandering hands made her intentions obvious. She wasn’t having much success with the buttons on his outer coat, though, so he kept running. “You’re angry,” she pouted. “Because of Sespian. But you shouldn’t have left me. I love you and you said you wouldn’t let anyone else have me and then you left me. That was mean, Sicarius. Mean mean mean.”

“Less talking,” he warned her. She would attract someone’s attention.

She scowled at him. “You _always_ say that. I want to talk. You’re too serious. Sicarius the Serious. Why don’t you have a nickname, Sicarius?”

 “Amaranthe,” he said. “If you can be quiet until we’re safe, I’ll give you a bath.”

“A bath!” A shadow crossed her face and she regarded him suspiciously. “Will it be warm?”

“Be quiet and you’ll find out,” he promised.

“Uh-uh. I know your tricks,” she slurred, shaking her head emphatically. “You’ll give me an ice bath. You’ll probably cut a hole in the lake and dump me in.”

At this point, he was tempted to do just that. “Only if you don’t stop talking. Now.”

She rolled her eyes, but she stopped talking. Finally. 

The factory was empty when he arrived. He set Amaranthe on a chair, but she stood up and started wandering around the room. Basilard had left a fire banked in the stove, so Sicarius only had to stoke it. Lugging pails of water from the pump on the main floor, he refilled the water reservoir behind the stove. That would be the second bath. He could not wait for warm water for the first bath, so he filled the metal bathing tub Amaranthe had found the week before with water straight from the pump. Though no ice floated on the surface, Amaranthe would not much care for it.

“Oh, Sicarius,” she called. “Nefarious Sicarius? Won’t you be nefarious with me?” She pronounced his name so her clever epithet would rhyme. He sighed and turned to face her.

She stood naked in the doorway, her wet hair cascading over her shoulders and brushing the tops of her breasts, which gave physical proof that she was, in fact, cold, whatever her behavior suggested. Sicarius approached her, bed sheet in hand.

“Be still,” he said. “We need to get this substance off your skin.”

“And then you’ll bathe me?”

“Yes.” He started with her arms and moved on to her torso. It was remarkable how, even with her well-muscled body, she had a womanly softness to her. But his hands did not slow as he rubbed the skin at her waist, reaching to the small of her back and over her round, firm bottom. She was not in her right frame of mind.

“Mmm, that’s nice, Sicarius,” she tittered. He moved onto her legs, chafing them more roughly than really necessary.

“Ow!” she exclaimed. Then, “Ooohh….”

What was he to do with her? Finally, he wrung out her hair with the sheet as best he could. He tossed the sheet to the floor and lifted her into the tub.

“It’s cold,” she said accusingly.

“Yes.” He attacked the poisonous residue anew with soap and a rag, and a film settled on top of the water. A few minutes later, she began to shake. He heard a chattering sound. Her teeth.

“I c-can do it,” she said, reaching for the rag. “I’m s-sorry. That stuff—”

“I know,” he said. He let her have the rag and sat back, relieved. She seemed herself. He watched her work soap into her hair. With a metal cup, she poured water over her head, closing her eyes to keep the soap and residue out. She missed most of the soap.

Sicarius took the cup from her hand. Gently, he ladled water over her head. She was so beautiful like this. And she had cared enough to risk her life for his. Did she really remember? Or had she began to trust him? Again? He wondered how he could walk away from her if she did remember. Setting the cup down, he wiped the water away from her eyes and stroked the curve of her cheek. Her eyes opened, brimming with hope. She leaned into his palm, her lips parted.  

With a shake of his head, Sicarius dropped his hand and pulled himself back to reality. Reality was as cold as the water in this bathtub: water that should probably be changed, in case a trace of the black water remained.

“I will replace the water,” he offered. “You should wash again in clean water before you dress.”

She blinked, her shock and hurt showing plainly. She stepped out of the tub and stood by it, her arms wrapped around herself.

“If you stand still, your body will warm the air around you and you won’t be so cold,” he advised her.

He tried to ignore her naked, shivering body as he changed the water, but it was difficult. Quickly, he emptied the tub one bucket at a time until it was light enough for him to dump the rest of it into the main floor drain. He felt her eyes following him as he walked in and out of the room. Honestly, he felt pity for her. She had gone through a lot that night. But if he let himself feel more, he would make a mistake that would hurt her and Sespian. And himself: she had decided she did not want him days ago, and if that was the case… He rinsed the tub once before refilling it using the water heating in the stove. The water wasn’t warm, exactly, but it was better. He found a clean rag and handed it to her with the soap. He stepped a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back. Discretely, he turned away as she climbed back into the tub.

“Thank you,” she said. “This water is much nicer.”

He nodded.

“How long did you know about my memory-sphere?” she asked, rubbing soap on her legs. He forced his eyes to stay on her face. She did not look at him.

“I found it when we were at the pawnshop.”

“Two days ago?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” She didn’t speak right away, moving on to her arms. “But you decided to give it back to me.”

He had always made a point of not lying to her, no matter how much she would dislike the truth. “No,” he said quietly.

“I see,” she repeated. She was rewashing her hair now, the toned muscles in her arms accentuated by the movement. He had found her attractive before, of course, but now that he knew this was likely the last time he would ever see those bare arms? She was irresistible. He wanted to touch her, to lift her chin and kiss her lips and tell her he was sorry. But her eyes were fixed on the surface of the water, a blank expression on her face.

“I will get you clothing.” It was as good a reason as any to leave the room. If he stayed much longer, he would do something impulsive.

He found a set of her clothing folded at the foot of her bed. When he picked it up, the mysterious cylindrical object fell out of a pocket. Bending, he picked it up and stared at it. It was gray and cool to the touch, but it had an aura to it that was strange. It wasn’t like any artifact he’d ever seen. If anything, it reminded him of a piece of alien technology, except for the color. He slipped the cylinder into his pocket and brought the clothes out to the kitchen. Amaranthe stepped out of the tub and accepted the clothing from him. She turned away and began to dress. 

He realized his clothing had also come into contact with the black water. He should probably bathe, too. After stripping, he stepped into the tub. He washed quickly, noticing that, for once, Amaranthe did not even glance at him. She left the kitchen, and he heard the door to her room close.

Reaching over the side of the tub, he pulled the cylinder out of his pocket and set it on a chair next to the tub. This was what Amaranthe had traded him for, he reminded himself. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at it because she wasn’t there for him to glare at. Whatever feelings seeing her again had stirred in him, the sight of this hated object quenched them.

Satisfied that he was clean, he brought one last pail of water in. Into this he carefully placed all the contaminated clothing. He put it on the stove to boil. If that didn’t break down the compound, the clothing would have to be burned.

While the soiled clothing boiled, he searched the men’s quarters for anything they had left behind. Under Sespian’s bed, he found a pile of clothing: the outfit he had given Sespian to wear the night before. The pragmatist in him—which was, after all, most of him—was glad of the change of clothes. The rest of him… He shrugged it off and returned to the kitchen.

He stirred the boiling pot of clothing, dismayed that the vapor carried a black tinge to it. It was a loss, then. As Sicarius doused the fire, he heard the door to the factory open and shut. Avoiding the direct line of sight through the open kitchen door, Sicarius edged toward the main floor. He snatched a look into the room, head flashing out and back faster than a striking cobra.

It was not a soldier. Or an enforcer. Sicarius stepped through the doorway.

“I thought I might find you here,” said Sespian, stopping ten feet away from Sicarius. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, watching Sicarius warily.  

“Lokdon’s plan did not work as intended.”

 “Is she…?” Sespian’s features were stricken with fear. He still felt something for her, then. Amaranthe would be fine with him.

 “She’s alive, but she’s been suffering psychological side effects from contact with an unknown substance. She went for a swim in the pool in the orb room,” Sicarius said. “At least she didn’t blow anything up. Then we’d have two hundred soldiers behind us.”

Sespian smiled. “And she’d probably find a way to blame you.”

“Probably.” Sicarius snorted. “Did you get the rest of the memory-spheres?”

“We did. The officers were more than cooperative. That part of the plan couldn’t have gone more smoothly.” Sespian took a few steps toward him, so they only stood a yard or so apart. He released his arms, swinging them awkwardly, before he settled on crossing them in front of his chest.  “Uh, thank you. For your help. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You are welcome,” Sicarius said carefully, to hide the surge of pleasure those simple words brought him. Sespian had never thanked him for anything.

Sespian nodded. “I, er, want to take you to the new hideout. This place is no longer secure, after Retta…”

“I will get Lokdon.” Sicarius turned and walked into Amaranthe’s room. She was asleep. He brushed the hair off her face, finding her skin alarmingly cold. Wrapping her in her blanket, he lifted her in his arms. He was about to leave when he remembered her box of mementos under her mattress. Whatever had happened between the two of them, the box should not be left behind. He tucked it into her cocoon of blankets and rejoined Sespian.

“Are you strong enough to carry her?” he asked.

“Yes…” Sespian cocked his head, his eyebrows drawn together in a puzzled frown. “But aren’t you coming?”

“You know it is better that I do not,” Sicarius said, extending Amaranthe toward his son. It would be easiest to let her go now, before she was awake and could protest. Although, he was no longer certain that she would protest.

But Sespian did not reach for Amaranthe. “No, actually, I do not,” he said.  

Sicarius stared at his son. “No?”

“No.” Sespian cleared his throat. His eyes drifted to the ground. “I need you,” he said softly.

A man less in control of his body would have dropped the woman in his arms with the shock that Sicarius felt.

“We’d better go before any soldiers _do_ get here,” Sespian reminded him.

Sicarius nodded, motioning with his head for Sespian to lead. He followed him out of the abandoned factory. Sespian jogged west, toward the lake. They crossed the railroad tracks in silence, heading toward the factory slum. As they ran, Sicarius pondered what to do. There were ways he could help his son, without being so close to Amaranthe. 

“Do you have a plan for the overseas contingency of Forge?” Sicarius asked.

“Admiral Starcrest may have something in mind. I need him here, though.”

“Then I will go.” In the corner of his eye, Sicarius observed Sespian’s startled glance.

“And Amaranthe?”

“You need her here.”

Sespian shook his head. “That is true, but…” He paused long enough that Sicarius began to hope that he had no argument. Unfortunately, he did not let the matter rest. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

Sicarius remembered when once he had said these words to Amaranthe.

Sespian continued. “And I appreciate it, but don’t.”

“You’re not an unfeeling assassin. She’s far more like you than me. She’ll see reason eventually.” And when she did, both she and Sespian would be free to pursue their vision for Turgonia, away from the shadow cast by his own notorious reputation. Why did they not see that this, ultimately, was better?

“Unfeeling?” Sespian challenged him. “I don’t think so.”

Before Sicarius could answer, Amaranthe stirred in his arms. “Where we going?” she mumbled. “Ungregarious Sicarius won’t tell me aaanything.”

Sespian raised an eyebrow.

“She has periods of lucidity,” Sicarius explained. “And then…”

“Lucidity is duplicity,” she sang. “Linguistically an iniquity!” She noticed Sespian. “Who is with us, Sicarius?”

“That’s Sespian, Amaranthe,” Sicarius said patiently.

“Pedestrian Sespian wants to be a thespian. His name’s _much_ easier than yours, Sicarius.” She grinned broadly.

Sespian laughed. “Will it wear off?” he asked.

 “It seems to be lessening.”

“You mean she was worse?” Sespian gestured to an empty school. “We’re in here.”

“Much.” An image of Amaranthe naked popped into Sicarius’s mind. He shoved it away.

“I’ll go let the men know she’s back,” Sespian said. “There are fewer broken windows on the second floor, if you want to find a room for her there.”

Sicarius nodded and climbed up the flight of stairs. He found an empty room with intact glass in the windows. Amaranthe seemed content to sit at a desk, her eyelids drooping until she fell asleep again, her head cradled in her arms. A few minutes later, a herd of elephants trampled down the hallway. Or so their noise suggested.

He stuck his head out the door. “In here,” he called.

They came in pairs, carrying wrestling mats between them. Sicarius pushed the desks away from the wall, and Maldynado and Books laid their mat down. Basilard and Akstyr placed one on top. Sespian and Starcrest were last. Tikaya trailed them, carrying an armful of blankets. She arranged them on the mats.

“She’s asleep,” Sicarius said. “I’ll move her.”

When he set her on the mats, her eyelids fluttered open. “Where am I?” she asked.

The men crowded around her. Sicarius tried to back away, but Sespian gripped his elbow and guided him back to the circle.

She sat up and looked from one man to the next, her eyes wide. “It was like a dream, Books. But it wasn’t a dream. You were there! And you, and you,” she looked from Basilard to Akstyr. “And you were there, too, Maldynado! And your chicken, Isabel!” Confusion knit her eyebrows. “Wait, no. We ate Isabel. Or she flew away.”

“Isabel is safe,” Maldynado assured her. Glaring at Books, he added, “Or she had better be.”

“And _he_ made me take an ice bath.” Amaranthe pointed accusingly at Sicarius.

“Probably needed one himself,” Akstyr muttered. Books stomped on Akstyr’s foot. “Ow! Whadja do that for?”

“She was submerged in a black substance created by a practitioner. She’s been acting like this ever since,” Sicarius said, ignoring Akstyr’s outburst. “Do you know how long the effects will last?”

Akstyr’s eyebrows flew up. “She did what? And she didn’t drown? If it’s what I think it is, it causes a state of euphoria that convinces anyone in contact with it to stop fighting. They forget that they can’t breathe and they die. She must have had a good reason to get out.” He stared at Amaranthe wonderingly. His words caused a twinge of guilt in Sicarius’s gut. _He_ had been her reason.  “Looks like you got it off her skin before it seeped in, so another few hours, I’d guess,” Akstyr speculated. “She’ll sleep it off.”

Amaranthe fell back on her blankets. “So tired,” she murmured. “See you in the morning, boys.” She tried to kick off her boots, but they were tied. She gave up, and her eyes closed.

Tikaya waved the men away. “I’ll make her comfortable,” Tikaya said, untying Amaranthe’s boots for her. She looked at Sicarius. “Give me a minute.”

Sicarius followed the rest of the team out of the room. Out in the hall, Starcrest stopped Sicarius with a hand on his shoulder.

“Sespian told me you still intend to leave,” Starcrest said.

 “Yes.”

 “Sicarius, you’re a very smart man,” Starcrest said, frowning. Sicarius glared at him suspiciously. “I don’t know why you’re being so stupid about this.”

Sicarius jerked his shoulder away from Starcrest. Starcrest dropped his hand, but he didn’t back away. “You should have seen her,” he continued. “Even earlier, before she remembered, she knew she was missing something and she didn’t know what and it was destroying her. _After_ she remembered… She was furious.”

Sicarius stared straight ahead, unblinking. There was no point in hearing this. He wouldn’t change his mind. Starcrest had more to say, though.

“When she found out you intended to leave, she _ran_ to find you. Sespian said he could barely keep up with her. And from what Akstyr says, she took a huge risk to save you. She cares, Sicarius. A lot.”

Sicarius crossed his arms defiantly. “She doesn’t want me. She gave up the memory willingly.”

“Oh, don’t be absurd. You don’t know that,” Starcrest argued.

Sicarius narrowed his eyes. “I do.”

Starcrest shook his head, exasperated. “Then just stay with her tonight. She shouldn’t be alone now, and you can leave in the morning after you talk to her. She was ready to give her life for you. You owe her that much, at least.”

“Fine,” Sicarius conceded. “I will wait until morning.” The smile that crossed Starcrest’s face was a bit too satisfied. Sicarius wasn’t changing his plan: he was merely postponing it. He _would_ leave in the morning.

“Good night,” Starcrest called, as Sicarius turned back to the room.

Amaranthe’s boots were lined up neatly next to the improvised bed, her trousers folded by them. Tikaya had just finished tucking the blankets around her. “There,” she said, walking to the door. “She’ll sleep more comfortably now. You should get some rest, too.” She left.

He shut the door behind her. Choosing a desk close to the pile of mats, he sat, watching Amaranthe. She lay on her side, facing the wall, her arms wrapped around herself and her legs curled almost to her chest. In sleep, she seemed so small, even vulnerable. It was hard to imagine that this was a woman who feared no one: a woman who saw redeeming qualities in the most notorious criminals, who had once seen something in him, and maybe still did.

In the morning, he would convince Sespian the logical thing for him to do was to go to Nuria to undermine the international branches of Forge. Sespian and Amaranthe could finish saving the empire without the shadow of an assassin complicating their efforts, and he would watch out for their interests from afar. Eventually, she would forget him. Her life would be better.

Morning was only a few hours away.

But in the meantime? Amaranthe was shivering visibly, and he could do something about that. Sicarius removed his knives and his boots. Noticing that his shirt and trousers were somewhat less clean than _he_ would have kept them, he removed them, as well. He slid beneath the covers, pulling her back against his chest and winding his arms around her. Her bare legs intertwined with his, drawing warmth from his body. Her head rested on his arm and her soft exhalations tickled his skin. Sleepily, she entwined her fingers with his, drawing him into a closer embrace. Instinctively, he held her tighter, burying his nose in her hair.

He didn’t dare fall asleep. He had to keep a watch, after all.

Besides, if he fell asleep, he wouldn’t be so acutely aware of Amaranthe, her limbs tangled with his, just this once. 


	9. Chapter 9

When Amaranthe opened her eyes, she was back in a classroom, but this time lying on a slightly lumpy wrestling mat. She was warm. And she was not alone. Arms wrapped around her from behind, and she felt a rock-hard chest against her back that could only belong to one person. She shifted to snuggle closer to him, and the arms extricated themselves, her warm companion sliding out of bed. Swiftly, she spun around.

Sicarius had already put on his trousers. He pulled his shirt over his head.

“Just _where_ do you think you’re going?” she asked, swinging her legs out of bed. After all she had gone through to save the thrice-cursed assassin, he was not getting away this easily.

“I don’t know. Nuria, perhaps,” he said, his voice neutral. He knelt to adjust his boot.

Nuria? Why on earth was he going there? They had work to do here. They needed him here. _She_ needed him here. “Why?”

“There is much we do not know of the international arm of Forge. I will seek Suan.” Finished tying his boot, he was now strapping his throwing knives on his arms.

“That I know,” Amaranthe said impatiently. “But why are you leaving _me_? And why now?”

“You show no lasting effects from your exposure to the substance last night,” he answered, his voice flat. “You will recover without me.”

“Oh, Sicarius,” she sighed. “Won’t you listen to what happened?”

“I know enough.” He yanked on the strap of his armband, securing the last set of knives.

“Do you?” she challenged him. “What, exactly, do you think you know?”

Having completed dressing, Sicarius faced her, arms crossed over his chest. Feeling at a disadvantage addressing him from her seated position, she stood. That wasn’t much better, she realized. She had been sleeping in only a shirt, which struck her mid-thigh. _He_ was never affected by a state of undress, though, and damned if she would be. She stepped toward him. Only a foot or so separated them, but rarely had he felt so far away.

“You traded your memories of me to a practitioner,” he said emotionlessly. His eyes were as dark as she had ever seen them. “For something valuable.”

After all this time, he would think that of her – that she had simply traded him away for some gewgaw? Or maybe it was her lack of vigilance that angered him. There he may have a point, she realized, but he had retrieved her memory and done nothing about it. Nothing.

“ _You_ had those memories for nearly two days before you gave them back to me,” she countered, throwing up her hands in frustration. “You weren’t even the one to give them back to me! Do you know who did, so I can send them a thank-you note?”

“Sespian.”

“Sespian?” she repeated incredulously. “You gave my memories, a window into the most private moments of my life, to your _son_?”

His expression hardened. “You chose to give up your memory. Surely you understood the consequences of that.”

“But _why_ would you give that to Sespian? It’s none of his business!”

Sicarius looked away from her, focusing on some point over her head. When he spoke again, his voice was icy. “You did not want them anymore. Neither do I.”  

Amaranthe’s mouth dropped open. For a minute, she stared at him. “If you want to leave me, leave me,” she said, very quietly. “But don’t take my choice away from me. I’ve told you time and again, Sicarius. I choose you. You.” She touched his arm, crossed protectively over his chest. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t push her away. She took a breath. “I didn’t _choose_ which ones to trade.” His eyes flicked down to hers. He was listening, at least, so she pushed on.  “She said she would take a memory, a random memory, and for that she gave me a piece of alien technology.”

“This?” he asked, pulling the cylinder from his pocket.

How had he gotten that? It had been… Oh. In the pocket of her trousers. Of course, he would have noticed it when he had brought her clothes after her bath. “It will prevent your knife from being tracked,” she explained. At this, he snorted. It did sound fantastical, she knew. “Well, try it, at least.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said. He turned the cylinder over in his hand, shaking his head. “I traded my knife to the practitioner for what I gave you.” He picked a small box off the floor and handed it to her. Amaranthe’s eyebrows flew up. She had forgotten about the picture and the book.

“Sicarius…” She opened the box, finding the picture and the book inside. “I remember opening these. I… I never thought I’d see them again. I know they’re just things, but I have so little left of my parents…” He still watched her, motionless. His eyes had softened the tiniest degree. Hopeful, she set his gifts on a desk. “Thank you,” she said, moving toward him. “They’re perfect.”

He set the cylinder down and turned back to her, but he did not move any closer. Hesitantly, she stretched her hand out to him. He looked at it. “Sicarius,” she said. “Please. Don’t go.”

He shut his eyes, preparing to leave or stay, she wasn’t sure. Amaranthe waited. She was afraid to move, or make a sound. Or breathe. He seemed ready to bolt at any provocation.  

When he opened his eyes, they burned into hers. With uncanny speed, he pulled her into his arms, clasping her to his chest. His embrace was not gentle, and she felt a dozen knife hilts poking her, from her ribs to her back. She couldn’t care less. She wound her arms around his neck, fiercely returning his hug. With interest.

“I won’t go,” he whispered, his breath warm on her skin. “Until you send me away, I won’t go.” His words held a sincerity that made her heart skip a beat.

“Good,” was all she could muster. Her voice was muffled against his shirt. His arms tightened around her, and he buried his face in her hair.

But only seconds later, he released her and stepped back. Amaranthe frowned at him. “Oh no you don’t,” she said, trying to draw him back to her.

A smile threatened to turn up the corners of his mouth. “I was once told,” he said, “that one does not bring knives to a seduction.” Amaranthe snorted, watching him as he methodically unfastened the leather straps for his throwing knives. He placed them ever so carefully on the bedside table.

“For someone so fast, you’re taking an awfully long time,” she grumbled.

“You wouldn’t want me to leave these just anywhere,” he replied calmly, placing his last knife on the table. With a quick, efficient motion, he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor.

“What, you’re not going to fold it neatly? Press it? Put it back on the shelf where it belongs?”

He raised an eyebrow. “If you want me to.”

He certainly had the knack of teasing down. But two could play at this game.  “You know how I feel about tidiness,” she said, unbuttoning her own shirt and slipping it off. She hardly noticed the chill of the unheated room on her bare skin. “Allow me.” She stepped past him, deliberately not grazing his skin, but passing close enough she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. Insouciantly, she bent down, picked up the shirt, folded it neatly along with hers and laid them both on a desk. When she turned back to him, his eyes were focused somewhere decidedly lower than her face. It was about time he stole a peek. She had begun to wonder if he ever would.

“Amaranthe,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “Come to me.”

She did. Stopping a foot in front of him, Amaranthe touched his cheek. It was stubbly, a day’s worth of beard grown in. She ran her fingers over the roughness of his jaw. He stood still, his breath shallow. Her fingers glided lower, skating across his muscular chest. How many times had she wanted to do this, she wondered. Dozens? More like several hundred.

“You’re still wearing pants,” she complained. His eyebrow twitched, an invitation for her to do something about this unacceptable state of affairs.

She knelt in front of him, and her hands skimmed over the thin fabric covering his perfectly sculpted legs. One at a time, she untied and removed the boots he had prematurely put back on. She stood, moving a few inches closer to him. She slipped her fingers under his waistband, unbuttoning his pants and working them loose until they fell to the floor. She rested her hands lightly on his hips. “That’s better.” She looked up.

In one fluid motion, he lifted her in his arms, kicked off his pants, and laid her on the bed. Holding her wrists in one of his hands over her head, he knelt over her. His eyes were dark, but no longer with anger.

“I’m ready for that demonstration now,” she croaked.

A raised eyebrow was his only response.

“Of the difference between romance and training?” she reminded him.

“This morning, it may be both,” he said, trailing kisses along her collarbone.

“So long as it doesn’t require putting clothes back on,” she said.

“Agreed.”

His lips moved along her neck, finding a spot just below her ear that made her shiver. Ever observant, he flicked his tongue over the spot again. She gasped. She could have sworn she felt him smile against her skin, but she had no need to look to be sure. She wouldn’t have him stop for anything. She ached to pull him closer to her, but his hold on her hands was firm.

With his free hand, he began to explore her body, circling her breast and tracing the contour of her waist. She moaned, arching toward him. His hand moved lower, pausing over the scars left by the makarovi.

“I’ve wondered,” he whispered against her neck. “Do you still have sensation there?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“And what about there?” His hand drifted over the hollow just inside her hipbone.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

“And there?” His hand slipped between her thighs, skirting the spot she wanted him to touch.

“Sicarius…”

“Hm?” His hand moved closer.

“I think you’ve had enough practice teasing,” she gasped.

Now she knew he was smiling. She felt his teeth against her skin.

“Huh.” Languorously, his fingers danced toward her center. “Are you sure?”

Her voice came out in a squeak.

“It wasn’t as hard to learn as I thought.”

“Sicarius!”

And then his hand was on her, thumb and forefinger stroking silky smooth skin drenched in wetness. She groaned, her need growing under his touch. She caught his mouth with her own in a hungry kiss. He met her passion, crushing her lips against his.

She pushed against his hand, seeking more: more of his touch, more of the delirium it excited in her. Agonizingly, he shied away, ceasing his tantalizing caress and pulling back from her kiss. Slowly, deliberately, he licked each finger. Releasing her wrists at last, he bent to kiss her again, and she tasted herself on his mouth. When he broke off the kiss, his lips did not leave her skin, but traveled ever downward, a trail of fire in their wake.

When he reached her navel, she began to quiver like a bow drawn too tight. Sensing she could not stand much more, he spread her legs and tasted her again. A finger slid inside her, finding a point of sensation just past her lips. No man had ever touched her there, and she wondered how he knew, but she could not hold on to conscious thought much longer. She twined her fingers in his messy blond hair, holding on for all she was worth. His finger and his tongue, by turns hard and soft, beat a sensuous rhythm. Was it possible to want someone more? To need someone more? Before she found her answer, shudders of ecstasy ripped through her body.

It was at least a minute before she opened her eyes. Sicarius sat between her legs, watching her, a look on his face that seemed to ask, “well?” She smiled. Of course he would be good at that. He was good at everything.

Amaranthe wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him toward her. Though he was poised not an inch away, still he hesitated. He was going to be shy now? She narrowed her eyes. No, he wouldn’t, because she wouldn’t let him. She flipped him onto his back. Startled, he let her.

She kissed him. She kissed him every place she had ever wanted to touch, on the hard line of his jaw, and the sculpted muscles of his chest. She kissed the ridges of his abdomen and the sharp edge of his hip. And, under her lips, Sicarius, the most feared assassin in the empire, trembled like a leaf.

She kissed him, burying her nose in his golden curls. She inhaled, intoxicated by the scent of him. It wasn’t soap or weapon oil, but the raw essence of what made Sicarius smell like _Sicarius_. She traced her lips over his length, the skin smooth against her mouth. Only then did she taste him, tentatively running her tongue over the tip.

Sicarius moaned. Not sighed, or exhaled. He _moaned_ , a deep and throaty rumble. Amaranthe raised her eyes, meeting his. He held her gaze, and there was something there she had never seen before: an intensity that held both tenderness and desire. She enveloped him with her lips, and his mouth fell open.

Faster than she thought possible, he reached for her and spun her under him. His lips, hot and demanding, danced against hers. Slowly, he lowered himself, until he hovered just over her, a question in his eyes.

In answer, she wound her legs tightly around him. Though she knew he could effortlessly resist the paltry force she exerted, he eased closer.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want you.”

And he entered her. In amazement, she watched the _expression_ on his face. His mask was gone, obliterated by what he felt in that moment. His eyes grew wide, his mouth open and gasping for air. She had never seen him out of breath.

“Amaranthe,” he rasped, moving into a slow, unrelenting rhythm. She dug her fingers into his back, not wanting an inch of unnecessary space to come between them. Of their own accord, her hips rocked with him, matching his pace. He began to move more quickly, fire blazing in his eyes. Had she wanted to – and she most certainly did not – she could not have looked away. Her lips parted, breath coming in frenzied gasps. She clutched at his shoulders, holding on to sense by the slimmest of threads. Suddenly, his eyebrows shot up, his mouth formed an ‘O’ and for a moment, he stopped breathing. He thrust harder and harder, and as Amaranthe tumbled over her own edge again, he slammed into her once more with mind-shattering force. Her eyes fell shut, the sensation in her body overwhelming all other sensory inputs.

Slowly, she became aware of her surroundings again. The first thing she noticed was the soft puff of his breath on her neck as he whispered her name again and again. Sicarius had collapsed on top of her, his weight reassuring. Her legs were still wrapped around his hips, her arms around his back. And for the first time, she did not detect a hint of tension in his body.

Too soon, he rolled off her. She would not let him get up, not yet. Happily, he was amenable to her nestling in his arms.

“I suppose we should have used some sort of protection,” she mused, some minutes later.

“It was taken care of.”

“Oh?”

“The Science. It’s reversible, but after Sespian was born, I thought it was a sensible precaution.”

“Ah.” Of course he hadn’t been celibate since he was fifteen. She tried to squelch the jealousy eating at her. It wasn’t as if she had never taken a lover. She had had one. Two, if you counted the one-night stand after lover number one left her for her friend’s little sister.

His hand stroked her head, smoothing her tousled hair. “There have been very few times I’ve needed it, Amaranthe. Extremely few.”

“Oh.” She fought a smile, knowing he could feel her facial expressions against the bare skin of his chest. His hand stilled, now simply cradling her head.

“Amaranthe?” His voice was uncertain.

“Yes?”

“What do you remember of the last few days?”

She sighed. She knew this would come up eventually, but she didn’t want to talk about it _now_. Cleaning fish and all that, though. “Everything,” she sighed. “I… You know what happened the night after Sespian and I infiltrated the Barracks?”

“You owe me no apologies. Anything that happened, I deserved.” He was silent for a minute, and Amaranthe thought he had dozed off, or at least forgotten the topic. “I am sorry, Amaranthe, for lying to you,” he said softly. “What the practitioner said… some of those things were true.”

She froze, not sure where he was going with this line of thought.

“Besides what you have given me, I have no personal experience with love,” he said. “I do not know what it is I feel.” He took a deep breath. “I know from my study of psychology that emotional states can provoke physical reactions, but this theoretical knowledge pales with the actual experience of the thing.”

 “You don’t have to say anything.” She squeezed him tightly. “I know.”

A companionable silence fell between them. Absentmindedly, Amaranthe began tracing circles on his bare skin, noting with satisfaction the gooseflesh rising under her touch.

“I always wondered,” she murmured against his chest. “Whether you could be overcome by anything.”

With a finger, he lifted her chin. “And?”

“And I think I need to collect more evidence.” She dropped her face against his chest again. He shook slightly, and she looked up at him in surprise. Was that a laugh?

“That would be acceptable,” he said, eyes glinting. 


End file.
